


maybe, i'm afraid

by Pachamama9



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Rape, Rape Recovery, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:15:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 114,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21634270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pachamama9/pseuds/Pachamama9
Summary: Inspired by Cafelesbian's tell me how to breathe in and feel no hurt.As Bucky and Steve survive prosecuting Alexander Pierce, another figure comes back into Bucky's life: Brock Rumlow.And while Rumlow makes Bucky's life a living hell, Steve struggles to understand what's wrong.
Relationships: Carol Danvers/Maria Rambeau, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Comments: 27
Kudos: 54





	1. if i were you (i wouldn't love me neither)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cafelesbian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cafelesbian/gifts).
  * Inspired by [tell me how to breathe in and feel no hurt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15826482) by [Cafelesbian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cafelesbian/pseuds/Cafelesbian). 



> This fic was inspired by the wonderful Cafelesbian's _tell me how to breathe in and feel no hurt_ , a fic about Bucky and Steve falling in love while in high school, torn apart by circumstance, and then pulled back together when Steve finds Bucky, an abused hooker, on the street and takes him into his home.
> 
> It's a beautiful, incredibly well-written fic, and if you haven't read it, my fic won't make a whole lot of sense. Please go over and read hers!!! 
> 
> And if you've already read it, then welcome to my fic of a fic: _maybe, i'm afraid_. It starts around when Bucky and Steve start surviving the whole legal process of prosecuting Alexander Pierce. 
> 
> Because this is inspired by another fic, it will NOT be the same. A lot of my background, such as Bucky's background mentioned in chapter 2, will be different. Some of the minor characters, even, will be slightly different. If you have any questions, feel free to comment and ask away.
> 
> Remember to please be careful! This fic contains violence, sexual assault, sexual violence, PTSD, and a lot of general sadness and recovery, just as a warning. 
> 
> Enjoy!! :)

They’ve recently started to press charges against Alexander Pierce, and it’s tearing Bucky apart. Steve can feel it, too. Bucky can barely eat, barely sleep… And the worry. Fuck, the worry is like poison inside of his chest, stabbing and twisting inside of him, chanting, _You’ll never win—Pierce is right, who would ever believe a cheap dirty whore_ , and he can’t ever get it out of his head.

Steve tries to make him feel better about the whole thing, and sometimes it helps. They’ll go out to museums and art shows and restaurants—they even go apple-picking once. But that’s all temporary. The trial, the meetings with Maria, the media uproar… Going for walks doesn’t take the impending doom away. It doesn’t disintegrate the waning terror of his mind, that he’s going to lose the trial and everything he loves.

* * *

It happens on a Tuesday.

Fucking _Tuesdays_. Usually, they aren’t so bad, but with the upcoming trial (and being constantly battered by Pierce’s presence), his Tuesday meeting with Jennifer is so much heavier.

Everything feels heavier now.

He’s walking back from Jennifer’s, bouncing a stress ball from his prosthetic to his real arm and back again. He squeezes tightly, strangling it between his fingers. As he’s walking down the sidewalk, crossing an alley, someone shoves him to the side, and he trips and almost falls; two firm hands catch him by the shoulders and trap him against the wall.

“Hello, _James_ ,” says Brock Rumlow, and every bone in Bucky’s body goes cold. “Or is it...Bucky now?”

Bucky’s never been so terrified in his whole life—all the moments with _him_ flash before him, of pain and abuse and violation and horror. He tries to muster up courage, any courage, but it crumbles in his mouth.

Rumlow grins. “I missed you, baby. And I heard you were going after that billionaire? Alexander Pierce, right?”

Hearing his other abuser’s name come from Rumlow’s mouth is too much—Bucky’s knees wobble, weakening, but Brock keeps him pinned against the wall. Bucky’s voice is gone. He can’t… It’s all too surreal.

“Look, James,” announces Brock, “I’ve got a deal for you. You wanna know who came knocking on my door after my few months in prison? _Pierce._ Came asking for me to testify against you in some case. To tell the judge that you had a nasty habit of telling dirty lies to get attention—”

_No, no_ , Bucky thinks. _No, oh God, please no…_

“—and I said I’d consider it unless—”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut.

“—you do as I say.”

His eyes fly open. It’s his worst nightmare brought to life. “No,” he manages, “no, no…”

“You come visit me once a week, and I’ll keep my mouth shut. Won’t do anything for Pierce. Then you and your pretty boy” —at the look on Bucky’s pale face, he smirks— “and yes, I know about him. You’re all over the news now; you’ll get your apple pie life with him once it’s all over. In the meantime” —he strokes Bucky’s cheek, drawing a line down his face and over his jaw; Bucky jerks away— “you get some special time with me.” Then Brock’s hands are on his waist, under his shirt, and his mouth is beside Bucky’s ear. It’s not like before, when Pierce cornered him at that Christmas party. Bucky’s too fragile now—he withdraws inside himself as Rumlow continues, breath hot against Bucky’s ear. “And you know what happens if you refuse?”

Bucky chokes out a “no.”

Rumlow’s full body is against him now; every escape route blocked, all of his space violated— “Then I get up there with Pierce. I testify against you, tell them what a fucking slut you are, how you’ll lie for anything…” He rambles on like this, and the scenario grows darker and darker in Bucky’s mind. “And when the press is finally done with you,” says Brock, as horror lights through Bucky, “that’s when we’ll come for you, sue you for every penny you and your pretty boy have. You’ll end up on the street again, desperate” —he kisses the side of Bucky’s neck— “and mine, all over again.”

“No,” Bucky croaks, tensing and pushing back.

Rumlow grabs his offending arm and grips it painfully tight. Bucky yelps in surprise, cowering beneath Rumlow’s formidable form. “You only have one option here, _Bucky_ ,” he mocks. “You’ll always come back to me.” Then he tucks a piece of paper in the waistband of Bucky’s jeans and squeezes him possessively before disappearing back into the rush-hour sidewalk crowd.

Bucky can still feel Rumlow on him, his hands on his hips, his mouth on his neck—he squeezes his eyes shut, shaking so badly he can barely breathe. With trembling fingers, he pulls the paper from his waistband. It’s an address, somewhere only a dozen or so blocks from his and Steve’s home, alongside a phone number.

And that’s when Bucky crumples, sobbing, against the brick wall of the alley.

* * *

When Bucky finally gets home, Steve isn’t there, but he left a note on the counter: _running to the store. be back in a few. love you._ He doesn’t sign his name—only a heart, meant for Bucky. He knows Steve’s handwriting better than anyone’s, anyway, so there’s really no need. 

Bucky’s overwhelmingly grateful that Steve’s not there, because he’s a _wreck._ He tears off his clothes, throws them in the washing machine, and jumps into the shower. 

He wants to burn the clothes that Brock touched, he wants to carve away the skin that Brock touched, he wants… He tries to scrub away Brock’s hands from his skin, but it’s _impossible._ The heat of the shower and the intensity of his scrubbing isn’t enough to make him forget that he stood there like a deer in headlights, listening to every word that Brock said. 

Bucky can’t help but know, deep in his heart, that Brock is _right._ If both Brock and Pierce testified against him—his throat clenches at the horrible thought—he’d never stand a chance. Then they could sue Steve for slander, and...oh, God. He can’t do that to Steve; Steve deserves to live his whole life out in splendor and happiness—and Bucky can’t be the one to take that away from him.

He’s still in the shower, when Steve gets home, and he starts crying ever harder, trying to stay silent as tears mix with the shower water still running down his face. He can’t do this. He can’t do this. _He can’t do this._ It’s too much, too much for one person to possibly ever hold. What is he supposed to do, rip Steve’s perfect goddamn life away from him just so…so what? So Bucky can pretend he’s not the filthy slut that he knows he is? Bucky isn’t worth all that. Bucky is barely worth a penny; Steve is priceless. Steve is good. Steve is beautiful. Steve worked so hard, harder than anyone, to get where he is today. Bucky would be cruel to take that away from him.

Bucky knows, suddenly, horrifically, what he has to do. 

Soft knocking on the bathroom door. “Buck?” It’s Steve, gentle and so fucking _kind_. “Baby, you okay in there?”

Bucky shuts off the water as fast as he can and tries to keep his voice from shaking. “Yeah, fine, just had to…” What? Take a shower to cleanse himself of Rumlow? What the hell is he supposed to say? “Sorry.” He dries off roughly, his skin rubbed raw. He flings on a T-shirt and sweatpants and opens the door for Steve. 

“Hey, don’t be sorry,” says Steve, even after the word is echoing in Bucky’s head: _sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m so fucking sorry— “_ It’s just… It’s five o’clock, baby.” He skips the hidden words there— _so why are you in the shower—_ because he can guess. Bucky always showers when he feels unclean. “Are you feeling okay?”

He reaches for Bucky; for a moment Bucky’s mind fritzes and all he sees is— _Brock’s hot-knife hands, no, get OFF me, no, NO, PLEASE, NO—_ and he has to physically keep himself from flinching away from Steve’s touch. _You got past this_ , Bucky scolds himself. _How fucking humiliating it would be if you backed out again._ So he lets Steve place his hands on his shoulders and his cheek, even though it sends his brain through a blender of dread. “It’s nothing… Just the case… And with Jennifer… I don’t know. It’s just a lot.”

And Steve nods and hugs him and kisses his cheek and promises to make him waffles for dinner.

Steve believes him. 

Sometimes Bucky wishes he wasn’t such a fucking liar.

* * *

Bucky texts the number on Wednesday morning with this terrible, hollow feeling in his gut. It’s dissociation, he knows, because he can barely remember the rest of the morning. As his fingers type _I’ll do it_ into a blue bubble and hit _send,_ he realizes he’s all too familiar with the feeling—of so much pain and paralyzing fear and all panic dialed to eleven that his mind simply flicks off, trying to disconnect from any future hurt.

It’s the fucking dissociation that gets him through this fucking nightmare.

Brock has him “visit” on Thursdays, for three hours each week. Bucky tells Steve he’s at a writing seminar— “Oh, that’s amazing, Buck!” says Steve, glowing with pride. “You’re gonna do great.” —and there’s a heavy pang of guilt every time he has to lie. But it’s either this, or else Brock testifies, they lose the case, Pierce sues for slander, Steve loses everything, and Bucky ends up back on the street. He _can’t_ go back. At any rate, three hours a week is better than twelve hours a day. 

It’s worse than it was before. One hundred percent fucking worse. Because this time, Rumlow’s got his fucking hot-knife fingers digging into Bucky’s head. He knows that Bucky will do _anything_ to keep him from testifying, so he makes Bucky do it. That. Anything. _Everything_. And, as it turns out, the darkest parts of Brock’s brain are a living hell. 

“I’ll just leave your pretty face,” Rumlow says one day, as Bucky unzips his pants, “‘cause we can’t have pretty boy getting himself all worked up, can we?”

* * *

Week after week after week, Bucky goes, like a stupidly obedient dog going back to its violent master, coming home with hand-shaped bruises, hickeys, ropeburn, and so many other horrific marks that he can’t look at himself in the mirror anymore because the shame is so overwhelming. He keeps them carefully hidden—he’s started wearing long-sleeved shirts and pants all the time now, which isn’t hard because it’s February in New York, but it confuses Steve, especially when they go to bed at night. 

Steve knows something is off—he’s always asking Bucky if he’s okay or some stupid shit like that that Bucky can never answer straight. Yet Bucky always tells him the same thing: _the trial, baby, it’s driving me crazy._

But it just gets worse from there. Bucky’s cramming all of his fear and anger and disgust and horror and pain in a fucking lockbox in his head so that Steve will never, ever find it, but all that means is that Bucky becomes a fucking _land mine_.

And Steve doesn’t know any better than to step on him.

Bucky’s real quiet these days, barely able to hold a conversation for more than a few minutes without his brain screaming, _You’re CHEATING on him, you lying SHIT_ or _you don’t DESERVE him_ or _he’s gonna hurt you, run, RUN NOW!_ Bucky has flashbacks more vivid than before, and with Brock fucking Rumlow fucking him till he bleeds every Thursday, they come back full force.

* * *

Steve wakes up one night to find Bucky drenched in sweat and screaming.

Steve jumps out of bed, trying to get him awake, get him out of his head, but Bucky’s still _there_ — _tied to a bedpost, blindfolded, helpless to the terrible pain that’s coming, the pain that’s already striking across his naked body and searing inside of him— “No, please, PLEASE, GOD, NO, PLEASE, BROCK—no MORE, no, no, NO, NO—I can’t, I CAN’T, NO, PLEASE, NO!”_

By that time, Steve realizes this shit isn’t just a dream—because Bucky would’ve woken up by now if it was just that—but a flashback, the worst one Bucky’s ever had. So when Steve, desperate, touches Bucky’s arm to try to break him out of it, Bucky only sees Brock’s hand on his wrist and runs for it, frantic, heaving broken sobs, and then locks himself in the bathroom, sobbing. 

Steve can hear him through the other side of the door—Steve rattles the doorknob, panicked. “Bucky, baby, _please,_ it’s just me, it’s just _me_ —” A clatter, metal hitting tile. Dark, shallow sobs. “Bucky—Buck, please, come on; open the door, _open the door_ —”

A frantic murmur—a thump. A gasp. “No, no, no, _no_ …”

Steve jerks the doorknob, pounding, panic racing through him. “Bucky, please, just tell me you’re okay—don’t, oh, God—Bucky, Bucky!”

Another round of hysterical sobs.

“Buck, open the door! _OPEN THE DOOR!”_

And all the while, Bucky is screaming, wailing, crying, held together by a thin thread. “No, no, _no, NO!_ ” Hiccups, followed by the sound of objects crashing to the ground. “No, no—” A raw string of words, interrupted by another hiccup. A brutal scream. Glass hitting the floor.

“ _BUCKY!_ ” Steve jerks the doorknob, his voice panicky and high, pounding on the door with a clenched fist— “Bucky, baby, _please_ , it’s me, just _me_ , open the door, _please, goddamn it, OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR!”_

Bucky screams, terrified, his fear giving way to another round of frightened, distressed sobs. “No, _no, please,_ I’m sorry, I’m _sorry, no_ —” His breathing is muddled by hiccups and terror.

Steve, unable to take it any longer, throws his full body against the door—once, twice, three times—splintering the wood around the lock until the door finally bursts open. Steve spots him almost immediately, and his voice goes small. “...Bucky?”

Bucky is curled up in the bathtub now, fully clothed in the fetal position: knees drawn up to his chest, back curved, head bowed, arms curled around the base of his skull. In one hand, he clutches a large piece of reflective glass— _the mirror_ , Steve thinks, and he looks to find it’s completely shattered. Blood spots the sink; _oh, fuck, no—_ He rushes to Bucky’s side. He’s breathing heavily, shaky, terrified gasps, and trembling violently. And when Steve approaches, saying, “Bucky, please, please, give me the glass, give me—”

Bucky suddenly spins, pushing himself up, all flailing limbs and panic, and holds the sharp glass at him— _at him_ , not to _give_ but to _threaten_ : _STAY AWAY_. His eyes are hollow, sleepless, fearful, defensive, and Steve realizes suddenly that Bucky has no intention of hurting himself—he’s just trying to protect himself. From _Steve_.

Guilt leaks inside Steve, and he moves back with his hands raised. He picks up his phone from the kitchen and dials Wanda, watching Bucky from the broken-open bathroom door.

A groggy voice answers. “Steve, it’s two in the morni—”

“I need your help,” gasps Steve, still trying to hold himself together. “It’s Bucky.”

* * *

Steve explains everything as she's in the cab, keeping her on the phone the whole time, and when Wanda finally reaches Steve’s apartment, she goes into the bathroom, and Steve sits, distressed, waiting for something to happen. He can hear their voices from where he sits in the kitchen.

“Wa-Wanda?” His voice is thick with confusion.

“Yeah, Buck, it’s me. How are you doing?”

“He’s here. H-he-he’s _here_.”

“No,” says Wanda softly. “He’s gone. It’s just me, Bucky. Me and Steve.”

“Steve,” Bucky answers hollowly.

“Yeah, you remember him, don’t you? Pretty blonde kid, wouldn’t hurt a fly?” She’s looking for a laugh, or even a smile, but all she gets is Bucky’s eerie silence. “Bucky?” she repeats. “You okay?”

A shallow breath. “He-he’s _here_. He’s—he’s gonna—” A choked sob.

“No, no one’s gonna hurt you, Bucky, they’re all gone now, right? Just you and me. And Steve. Do you know where you are?”

At Bucky’s strained silence, panic punches Steve in the gut. _He doesn’t know where he is._ Bucky lets out a muffled sob.

“You’re at home, Bucky. Steve’s and your home. You’re safe here.”

“B-b-but he—”

“He’s not here,” Wanda repeats slowly. “No one here is gonna hurt you.”

It takes a while, minute after minute of this back-and-forth conservation, before Wanda can finally pry the glass from Bucky’s white-knuckled fingers and convince him to leave the bathroom. Bucky’s shaky on his feet, red-eyed and scared, one hand in Wanda’s. Her other arm is pressed lightly against the top of his back, leading him to sit at the kitchen table. Upon seeing Steve, he flinches violently, pulling away, but Wanda assures him he’ll be okay and sits him down.

After bandaging his glass-splintered knuckles and making him a mug of tea, Wanda pulls Steve aside. “I need to talk to him,” she says sternly.

Steve glances over at Bucky, who’s still trying to calm himself. “But he needs me, I have to—”

“No,” says Wanda, and her hazel eyes bore into him, “Bucky needs someone he knows won’t hurt him.”

“But he knows I won’t—”

“No,” she repeats, “he doesn’t.”

It hits Steve like a brick wall; this is nothing like anything they’ve gone through before. While Steve loves Bucky immensely, Wanda has experience; she knows what it’s like for Bucky to come back beaten and bruised and distrusting. His shoulders slump. “Okay,” he agrees finally. “I’ll be in the bedroom—”

“No, Steve,” interrupts Wanda, a third time. “I need you to _leave_. Go visit a friend or something. I don’t care where you go. But you can’t be _here_ , okay?”

“But—”

“ _Steve_.” Wanda lowers her voice. “Bucky doesn’t feel safe right now. He’s having a lot of trouble knowing what’s real and what’s not real, and I used to be the only person in the world he could trust in moments like this. He’s _terrified_ —of _you_ , of men in your position—and having you here is really not helping him right now.” Her gaze is firm. “Go.”

So Steve calls Sam— “What the hell, man? It’s three in the morning!” —and leaves to stay at his place.

Wanda sits down at the kitchen table with Bucky—he’s nervous, his mind still smoking from the remains of what just happened. He spins the mug of tea in his hands, staring down at it like it’s the ocean and he’s going to drown himself in it. “Bucky,” she says softly, “tell me what’s going on.”

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he says. His voice is broken—he hates how weak he sounds. “I just—I want to—to take a shower.”

She leans back a little in her seat. “Okay.”

He goes to the guest bathroom instead, takes a long-ass shower that boils his skin and comes out in clothes that aren’t soaked in sweat or tears or blood or guilt.

Bucky still doesn’t feel any cleaner.

* * *

Wanda’s still sitting there, sipping absentmindedly at her tea. Bucky sits back down; his hands are shaking— _why can’t he make them stop shaking?_ He can’t even look at Wanda because his shame is so strong. “We have to talk about this, Bucky,” she says, firm yet caring. “I’m not leaving until I understand.”

Bucky’s guilt climbs up his throat. “I—It’s just the trial and everything…” he mumbles.

“Bullshit,” Wanda replies. “I _know_ you, Bucky, and you…” She gnaws on her lip. “You aren’t eating enough. You clearly aren’t sleeping. You look…” She stares at him, and Bucky shrinks beneath her gaze. “You look like _before_.” 

Bucky’s heart pounds relentlessly—she knows, she knows, _she knows_.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

“Bucky. _Bucky,_ look at me.” He does. “Why aren’t you eating?”

His head aches. He’s so goddamn _tired_ of living like this. “I’m fucking sick of feeling full,” he answers, before his brain can stop him. 

Wanda’s sharp intake of breath is enough to alert him that he said something _grievously_ wrong. “Oh, Bucky…” she whispers, as though they’re the only two people in the whole world. “Someone’s hurting you.”

He lifts his head, shocked. “Wh-what?”

She frowns, a sad, tortured expression. “Is it Steve?”

“Wha—no! No.” He shakes his head vehemently. “He would never.”

“Bucky,” she says, her voice cautious, “if he’s hurting you, you have to tell me. You can come stay with me, just like before, we’ll find a way—”

“N-no! Wanda, I swear, he’s not.” Wanda frowns again. “He’s never hurt me.”

“Bucky, I know that you two had that thing when you were younger, but people _change_ —you don’t have to feel loyal to him, I knew it was too good to be true, please, let me help you—”

“He’s not hurting me!”

Wanda stops, setting her mug down. “Fine,” she says, and her gaze is fiery. “Then who is?”

“No one,” says Bucky, a beat too late. “Nothing, no one, _nothing’s wrong!_ ”

“Bucky—”

“This is none of your fucking business anyway,” Bucky snarls, and he has no idea where this sudden burst of rage came from, but it’s here. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Steve is the best, the kindest, I don’t fucking deserve anything that he’s given to me, but here I am! And I’m _fine_ , I already told you that! I’m fucking _peachy_ , and I don’t need you swinging in to check on me! Steve and I are _fine_ , the trial’s going _fine,_ everything’s _fucking fine!”_

Wanda’s perfected, stone-cold stare rests on her face. “Show me your arms,” she says suddenly, with no reaction to his outburst. Bucky flinches, thinking immediately of last Thursday—

— _tightens the bonds around his wrists, and his fingers tingle as Brock growls, “Thank me, slut, and I’ll give you a present.”_

_Bucky traps his sob in his throat, knowing that if it leaves his mouth, Brock will only punish him worse. “Th-th-_ _thank you,” he croaks, and he feels more pain crackle over his thighs._

_“Thank you,_ what _?”_

_Bucky’s vibrating in fear, trembling so badly that even Brock can feel it. “Th-thank you, sir.”_

_Brock chuckles darkly, and then he’s there, and pain is everywhere—_

—and a rush of frustrated fear washes over him. “No,” he snaps, as his heartbeat sprints in his ears. Wanda knows him too well. She knows that when he was at his worst, he’d hide his bruises beneath his clothing, but she always knew. Just like she does now.

“Prove to me you’re fine,” Wanda declares, “and I’ll leave you alone.”

Bucky’s heart stops. “Fuck you, Wanda.” His hands are shaking, so badly that he has to clasp them tightly in his lap to make them stop. “I don’t have anything to prove to you. I’m _fine_.”

Wanda’s quiet for a moment. “Bucky,” she begins, “I’ve known you for four years. I used to take care of you whenever you came back from Pierce’s” —Bucky winces— “black and blue, barely able to stand, so scared that you couldn’t even be around anyone but me. I know what you look like when someone’s hurting you. I know that when you say you’re sick of feeling full, you mean you’re sick of swallowing.” She reaches for his hand across the table, but Bucky pulls back, horrified. “Which means someone is making you swallow. Someone is _making_ you walk like you’ve been beaten—don’t deny it, Bucky. God knows I’ve seen my fair share of people who’ve gotten the shit beaten out of them. You may be able to hide it from Steve, but you can’t hide this from me.” When he tries to protest, she holds up her hand. “No. I know what those shitheads did to you when I was there, and goddamn it, Bucky, you have to tell me who’s doing this to you now.” Her voice drops again. “And if it’s Steve… You have to tell me. I’ll get you somewhere safe, I promise. Jarvis and I… We can take you in, we can—”

Bucky finally musters up the bravery to say something, but by now all he can do is spit fire, just to get himself out of this dark pit— “I don’t give a fuck about you and your sugar daddy,” he snaps, vibrating with anger. “And I don’t need your pity. I’m _fine_. We’re all _fine!_ Steve’s never laid a hand on me, and he never will!” He stands up, trying to move across the room like a person without dozens of bruises smattered across his body, and flings the tea into the sink. “What, is it not enough that I go to fucking therapy every week? Now I’ve gotta have my fucking babysitter watch over me, too?”

Wanda’s whole face hardens. “Buck—”

“No,” he states, his voice a dangerous growl. He’s never spoken to Wanda like this before, never had such cutting fury in his voice before, but there it is, spitting out onto the kitchen table. “We’re done here. I’m done.” She’s startled, on her feet now. “Get out of my fucking apartment.” When she doesn’t move, Bucky sweeps his arm across the table, danger screaming in his mind, knocking an array of items—coffee mug, first aid kit—onto the floor. “Get out, _get out!_ ”

So she does.

* * *

Everything’s falling to pieces now—an avalanche of broken relationships and broken bones and broken hearts. Wanda never stops texting him, but he eventually blocks her number. She tries to get Scott to talk to him, too, but Bucky has a screaming match with him that gets so loud that Scott’s neighbors bang on the door to shut him up. Scott stops talking to him after that. Bucky’s started lying to Jennifer, lying right through his teeth—about the meetings with Brock, about the nightmares that tear his sanity from him, about the crumbling relationships with his friends, about the flashbacks that leave him so terrified and confused that he can barely remember where he is, about the anger that drenches every conversation he has, about the dissociation that leaves him missing massive chunks of time, about the little voice in the back of his head whispering that if he killed himself, everything would be better. And she believes it, mostly.

The meetings with Maria concerning the case leave him quaking with anxiety that _they are going to lose_ , and the thought of it hammers Bucky’s brain until he’s hyperventilating at the thought. If Steve brings it up outside of Maria’s office, Bucky shuts down or snarls an accusation or bottles it up until he explodes a day or two later.

Bucky’s barreling down this fucking horrible path, and he can’t find a way to stop it.

* * *

Steve treats him like glass after what happened, never touching him without explicit permission, but it sets Bucky on edge. Once, when Steve pulls away, guilty, before kissing him, Bucky snaps, “Steve, I’m not a fucking _doll_ —don’t treat me like one.” He doesn’t know what’s put this dark frustration in his bones, but it’s there nonetheless—even as Bucky’s mind screams, _No, no, don’t let him touch you, it’ll be just like Brock,_ his mouth says yes, knowing that if he gets bad again then Steve’s gonna really know that something’s wrong, and it’ll all turn to shit. “Just kiss me. I’m not gonna fucking break.”

Steve, hurt and confused, backs away form Bucky. “Buck, I’m just trying to make sure—”

“Well, _don’t!”_ he growls, his voice thick with anger. “You don’t need to fucking ask every time you put your hands on me, I’ve survived fucking worse—” He cuts himself off, his skin buzzing with this haunted feeling. He’s said too much—now Steve’s giving him that wounded puppy look, all shiny eyes and pity.

A beat, a moment so long that Bucky can feel it stretching ominously before him. Breaking the silence, Steve sets his brain on fire. “Us being physical shouldn’t be something you have to _survive_ , baby. It should be something you _want._ ” 

Bucky, all at once, feels his brokenness deep inside of him, penetrating every part of his brain until there’s nothing left but murky darkness and sharp edges. He can’t think of anything to say back to Steve that won’t end up in him spilling all of his sins on the kitchen table before him, so he snarls, “I’m gonna take a walk,” and slams the front door behind him.

Bucky takes a long time, wandering the city after dark—it’s only seven o’clock, but it glistens with life and vibrancy. He can feel himself in contrast to the beautiful city; he’s bone-thin, flawed, broken, dirty, disgusting, compared to these happy, perfect, pristine people. He hates himself so fucking _much_ ; why is he like this?

It’s been ten weeks since Brock first contacted him. Ten fucking weeks. Ten visits with Brock that leave him so bloody and scarred that he wishes he was dead. And after ten weeks, as Bucky walks the streets of New York, Brock texts him something new, at the worst possible moment, as Bucky is reading through all of Steve’s concerned texts ( _bucky, please come home, i’m worried, i love you, i’m not mad, let me know you’re safe)_ until Brock’s name pops up on the screen: _hey_. _meeting at ur place next week._

Something deep inside of Bucky rears its ugly head. He opens the app and, heart pounding, responds, _no,_ resisting the urge to put a _please_ in front of it. He sends the message before he can stop himself, and then shoves his phone back in his pocket. He shuffles to a stop in front of a comic book store, staring longingly at the Superman comic in front of him. God, if someone could only save him. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he resists the urge to cry. His heart speeds up, ticking in his ears like a fucking clock. He looks up at the sky, the stars blurred streaks through his tears, and takes a breath to gather himself—it catches in his throat as soon as he opens the message and reads: _u don’t get to fucking say no to me. your place. five pm. get pretty boy out of the house._ And then there’s those three fucking dots beneath it, showing Bucky that he’s still typing, still typing, still fucking typing— _i can’t wait._

Bucky’s shaking now, sobbing uncontrollably, so hard he has to brace himself against the wall, anger and hurt bleeding into deep, abysmal shame. 

* * *

When he gets back, Steve’s sitting at the kitchen table, phone glowing gently beside him, head in his hands. He sits up suddenly as Bucky comes in, and guilt tears through him as he realizes Steve’s been _crying._ “Bucky?” he says, voice raw. 

Bucky can’t find anything to say, and a sob bubbles in his throat. His guilt about what he’s going to do cracks open his mind and sends it reeling with an overwhelming, exhausting sadness. He wants to say it— _I'm sorry—_ over and over and over again, so that maybe, just maybe, Steve will forgive him, but instead frustrated tears run down his face, and then he’s collapsing in Steve’s arms, broken and humiliated and scared and just _tired_. He can’t stop crying—he just clutches Steve like a lifeline and holds on, and Steve holds him. Steve doesn’t say anything about their fight. He only holds him, soothing him softly, and for the first time in weeks, in this moment, Bucky feels safe.

* * *

Thursday comes too soon.

Bucky convinces Steve to leave the house for a couple hours, claiming he “just wants a little quiet,” just one evening to himself.

Steve smiles gently and kisses his cheek. “Of course, baby, whatever you need.”

Bucky tries not to look him in the eye; as Steve stares at him, his toes curl in anticipation of something—a hit, a kiss, a _you’re a fucking liar and you deserve to be punished—_

“You’re getting thinner,” he says instead, concern drifting across his face. “As long as you promise to eat something.”

Bucky nods and mumbles a promise back.

So Steve goes to Sam’s for dinner.

And Bucky texts Brock.

And everything spirals from there.

* * *

After Brock’s impromptu visit, Bucky finds himself panicking _all the time_. He’s turned Bucky’s home, the one place he feels safe, into a war zone. He sees Brock around every corner, hears his voice in every phone call, feels his touch in every kiss.

His panic attacks happen more and more frequently—once, in the middle of a session with Jennifer, she says his name, and Bucky’s mind unravels until he’s scrambling into the hallway and screaming, _please, no, no, n-n-NO!_ Jennifer pulls him out of that one, but it’s clear to her, more than ever, that Bucky isn’t as _fine_ as he claims to be. 

Bucky’s dissociating more than ever before, losing portions of time, and he can hardly go to sleep without checking every room and making sure that the door is locked. Once, when he can’t sleep, he goes to the door to ensure it’s actually locked. He unlocks and locks it several times, and then does his rounds, checking each of the rooms before returning to the door and locking it again. He sits in the couch, trying to gather himself. He’s in a bad headspace already because it’s Wednesday, his thoughts darkened by the thought of Rumlow, and when a man’s voice says, “Bucky?” from behind him, Bucky’s startled so badly, terrified of another attack, that his mind shivers and shudders and— _shuts down._

It takes a couple of hours for Bucky to come back. By that time, Jennifer’s there, too, makeup-free, her dark hair a mess. It’s the first time Bucky’s seen her so disheveled, and when Steve explains to him that it’s four in the morning and he’s been sitting in the same spot for two hours, everything seems to fall into place. Jennifer leaves a few minutes after that, and when Steve tries to talk to him, Bucky merely repeats that he wants to sleep until Steve finally gets him a blanket and a pillow and sets him up a spot on the couch.

* * *

In the morning, when Bucky wakes up, he’s sprawled on the couch with a blanket over him. He can hear Steve’s voice faintly from the other side of the room, talking on the phone.

“I don’t _know,”_ Steve says, his voice low. “He doesn’t talk to me anymore.” A long pause. Bucky can hear the other voice, a woman, buzzing through the phone, saying something that sounds like a question. “No, no, Bucky and I haven’t talked, not really, for a few weeks. He’s so… so quiet lately. I thought he was just taking more time for himself, you know, thinking through things, but then it got bad. He’s been getting worse, Jennifer.” So that’s who’s on the other line. Jennifer. “So much worse.”

All of Bucky’s lies pile up in his mind, one after the other, growing and growing into an insidious mass of panic.

“I know, I know…” Steve continues, and he moves closer to the couch where Bucky is. 

He can hear portions of Jennifer’s response— “... _recovery won’t be...uphill...can only hope...when something big happens...he will...you_.”

_“_ I know, it’s just… When he had that, you know, breakdown a while ago, he wouldn’t talk about it to me.” _Fuck,_ Bucky thinks, _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ Why’d he have to mention the breakdown? He’d never talked to Jennifer about that, for good reason, and he’d hoped it stay locked in his closet of personal horrors forever. “And that was the worst thing that’s happened in a while. He wouldn’t let me touch him for a couple days… Well, he didn’t say I couldn’t touch him, but it showed, you know? He was...skittish. Scared.” _Shut up,_ thinks Bucky. _Shut the fuck up, Steve._ “He said he’d get through it with you, that I wouldn’t understand” —he sighs— “which I get, because you’re a professional and all…”

“ _Wait, stop,”_ says Jennifer, and Bucky’s body goes still, waiting for her to say it. “ _Breakdown? What breakdown?”_

Then Steve moves away from the couch, pacing back towards the wall, and their voices grow quiet. “Um, you know… When he broke the mirror? It was a really bad one…” A pause, as he listens to Jennifer’s confused response. “A few weeks ago…” Bucky can feel Steve look at him; his boyfriend’s gaze burns on the back of his neck. “He told me he’d talk to you, I don’t understand… Bucky wouldn’t lie to me about this.”

Steve moves to the side of the couch and sits on the ottoman where he can see Bucky fully, and Bucky’s mind alights with alarm. He can hear Jennifer’s voice through the phone, loud and clear. “ _Trauma can induce all sorts of feelings, Steve. Shame is a particularly strong one, especially in cases like Bucky’s. Lying so that you don’t have to face the shame of a breakdown is more common that you might think.”_

_“_ No, no, he wouldn’t lie to me. We’re honest with each other. We always have been.”

Bucky’s heart clenches. They always had been honest...until Bucky came back and destroyed Steve’s life from the inside out. 

There’s a heavy silence, thick and oppressive. “ _Steve… I think you two should come in for a meeting. Together._ ” 

Bucky’s stomach drops. 

Steve sighs shakily. “I’ll talk to him.”

“ _Come in with him tomorrow, Steve._ ” A sigh. “ _We’ll get through this, don’t worry. Bucky will be fine._ ”

“Okay… Okay.” Steve pauses, like he wants to say something else. “Thank you. Okay.” Then, after Jennifer wishes him well, he hangs up.

Then Steve does something that Bucky doesn’t expect—he whispers, “Oh, Bucky…” and then starts to cry.

Bucky expected anger, betrayal, rage, disbelief, confusion, or all of the above. He didn’t expect this… this _grief_. Steve’s cried in front of him before, but never like this. It was always frustrated tears, empathetic tears, not this. He’s never _sobbed_ before Bucky, and that’s what’s happening right now, this heart-twisting sound that’s erupting from Steve. 

But Bucky, the fucking coward, doesn’t comfort him. He keeps his eyes closed, his breathing steady, and listens to Steve’s sobs without saying a word.

* * *

When Bucky finally gets up from the couch, Steve’s painting at the kitchen, something gloomier than he normally does; his fingers are stained with blue and red. He shields the painting from Bucky’s view as soon as he enters the room, almost guilty. “What’s that?” Bucky asks tiredly.

Steve clears his throat. “It’s nothing. Just a project I’m working on.”

There’s this unspoken _thing_ between them, heavy and taut and clinging to every word they say. Bucky hates it. “Any coffee left?” Bucky moves to the coffeepot and pours its lukewarm remains into a mug with _Starry Night_ printed on it. “I’m sorry I slept so late, I—”

“We need to talk,” announces Steve suddenly, pressing his paint-covered fingers to his wrist. He’s nervous, Bucky knows. He keeps gnawing on his bottom lip.

Bucky swallows. “Okay,” he replies.

“You, um…” Steve, for once, can’t find the words he wants to say. He picks at the paint clinging to his fingernails. “You… You didn’t tell Jennifer.”

“Tell Jennifer what?”

Steve bites his lip. A beat passes. “Bucky… You know. Please don’t do this. You know what I’m talking about.”

It’s there, strung between them, thread held taught on either end by their hearts. Bucky hangs his head a little, avoiding Steve’s eyes.

Finally, Steve opens his mouth. “I thought we talked about this,” he says softly. “I thought you were going to talk to her. You have to, baby, or you can’t move past this.”

Steve’s prying, prodding at places of Bucky’s mind that are already splintering. Bucky sinks in his chair. “Jennifer doesn’t fucking understand.” Bucky’s voice is low, anger trapped behind his teeth. “She doesn’t understand—she doesn’t get it.”

Steve runs his hands over his hair, his fingers nervous combs. “Bucky, baby, she knows more about this than _anyone_ ; you have to talk to her. She’s—I mean, she’s a therapist who works with people like you, she’s supposed to—”

“People like me?” mutters Bucky darkly. “Broken, you mean?” Bucky’s pulling the seams of Steve’s heart apart, meticulously, with his sharp fingers, and once he realizes what’s happening, he’s already too far in. He’ll say anything to get Steve away from talking about this. 

“Bucky—” Steve’s voice cracks. “No, baby, you’re not broken. You’re not… No, you just need _help_ , and she’s helping you—baby, you just have to let her—”

“She doesn’t fucking understand, Steve,” snaps Bucky. “It’s all fucking useless anyway, right? All this time, and we’re back where we started.” A headache grows behind Bucky’s forehead, a ragged whine of pain. “Worse.”

“She said there’ll be setbacks, Buck, relapses—”

“It’s not _working!_ ” His hands shake, trembling with the force of his words. “Just drop it, Steve, you know it’s not working, it was never gonna work.”

“Baby, we just gotta keep _trying_. Jennifer said—”

“I don’t fucking _care_ what Jennifer said!” Bucky’s breathing hard now, and his headache worsens. “She makes me cry a few fucking times and you all think I made some kind of breakthrough? That I’m fixed? It’s not fucking possible, Steve.” He can feel the bruises on his body now, all at once, marks of his shame. “I thought I could pretend, but I can’t fucking _do_ this anymore. You know I can’t sleep anymore? It’s having you—you sleeping beside me, and I just get so fucking—so fucking _afraid,_ like you’re gonna—” His throat tightens involuntarily. “I sleep in the bathtub, Steve, whenever you’re not here, because I can’t _sleep_ in _that_ _fucking_ _BED!_ ”

Steve makes a small, choked noise. “Bucky…”

“Steve” —Bucky’s so close to shattering, he can fucking feel it— “please. Please don’t make me.”

Steve bites his lip, teary-eyed. “I’m never gonna make you do anything you don’t want to, baby, I never—I don’t wanna make you feel like—god, fuck—” He scrubs a shaky hand over his face, holding back a sob. “Buck—I can’t—I don’t know what to do, but Jennifer, she _knows_ , goddamnit, she can _help_ —” 

“If she was fucking helping, don’t you think we’d be better? That _I’d_ be better?”

Steve grips his paintbrush like a lifeline. “She said it’d be like this, it—it wouldn’t all be—be uphill, sometimes—god, who do you talk to, if not Jennifer? Wanda? You told her not to come back, Buck! You broke her heart! You don’t talk to her, you don’t talk to Jennifer, you don’t talk to me—how am I supposed to—how do I—” 

Alarm flares in Bucky’s chest—he can’t talk to Jennifer. If he does… Fuck. “I don’t want to talk to her, Steve. I’m not gonna do it. I won’t. All she does is pry where she doesn’t belong, ask me about—fuck her, she has no right! No right!”

Steve’s fully crying now, like he did before, sobbing into his hands. “I don’t—I don’t know what to do, Buck, tell me how—tell me how to help you.”

_Tell me how to help you._ The worst part is, Bucky doesn’t even know how to help himself.

Bucky knows, painfully, that he dug this grave for himself—this dark pit of fear, anger, and loneliness. So he has to lie in it, has to close his eyes, has to let Steve nail the top shut.

* * *

And that’s how they end up at Jennifer’s a couple hours later, Bucky waiting in terrified anticipation as Jennifer and Steve talk outside in the hall. His leg keeps bouncing, up and down and up and down until he can’t really feel it anymore. He keeps his phone in his pocket, holding it in a deathlike grip. If Steve got his phone and found all of the texts with Brock… He’d hate him forever. He never once cheated on Steve—they always swore they were the ones for each other, because it was true. Now… Bucky took that honesty, the trust and beauty and love of their relationship and tore it apart.

He stills his nervous leg.

He doesn’t notice that he’s rocking until he recognizes the squeaking of the chair beneath him, and he tries to stop, but then he slips back inside his mind again, and he keeps going, back and forth and back and forth, thoughts clanging between brutal memories and panic. 

When Jennifer comes back in, Bucky barely notices until she’s sitting down across from him. “Bucky?” Her voice is careful, quiet. “How are you?”

It takes Bucky a moment to realize that Steve isn’t there. “Is Steve…”

Jennifer shakes her head. “Right now, it’s just you and me. He told me about everything he knows, but I want to hear what you have to say.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“Bucky…” She puts her notepad down on the ground. “Look, this is not Jennifer, the therapist, talking to you anymore. This is Jennifer, the person.” She waits until his eyes meet hers. “Please tell me what’s going on. I know you’ve been lying to me for a while now. I know you’ve been getting worse, and I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Bucky shrugs.

Jennifer sighs. “Okay. Let’s start small. Just… No more lies.”

Hesitant, he nods. 

“Is someone hurting you?”

_Yes_. He shakes his head. If it’s willing, it doesn’t really count. He asked for it. 

“Are you hurting yourself?” Bucky flinches—

_—and when he closes the door behind him, he can still feel Brock on him, like a horrific ghost. It’s 8:23—Steve expects him back by 7:30, usually, but Bucky passed out when Brock choked him near the end of the visit, and he didn’t wake up until much later._

_He checks the kitchen—Steve left a note saying he was at Sam’s place picking up some stuff, so he’s not home yet. He almost crumples in relief, bracing himself against the kitchen table, but he doesn’t cry. He just feels...numb, like he’s been dunked in ice water._

_He finds himself in the bathroom; he doesn’t know how he got there, but he’s curled up on the floor, rocking slowly with his fingers vicelike around his upper arms. It takes him a few minutes to come back to himself—he has to pull himself out of the icy comfort of the recesses of his brain._

_His upper arm stings. When he peels his hands away, he finds blood caked beneath his fingernails—the_ hell? _He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. He opens and closes his fists before taking a shallow breath and looking at his arms. There are scratches there, bloody welts deep enough to coax red to the surface._

_Bucky is falling apart at the seams. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before. What is he supposed to do? His skin didn’t belong to him anymore; that’s why he tried to scrape it away with his nails, he knows, because Brock left his mark on him, and now Bucky doesn’t feel like_ him _anymore, his skin doesn’t feel like_ his—

—and shakes his head again.

Jennifer watches Bucky for a moment, taking him in. “Bucky, if you’re suffering, I can help you. I can get you somewhere _safe_.”

“I’m _fine,_ ” repeats Bucky.

“Steve told me—”

“Maybe Steve’s lying,” he snaps, trying to pull her away from this, anything to stop the conversation in its tracks. “Ever think of that?”

“Why would Steve want to lie to me?” she asks calmly. 

Bucky shrugs.

Jennifer’s giving him that look again, the one that means she’s studying every thought in his brain, analyzing for whatever fucking psychological shit she can find, and he _hates_ it. She keeps asking him questions: _have you had any suicidal thoughts, how often are you dissociating each day, what triggers are causing you to struggle the most, is Steve worsening your sympto—_

“What the _fuck,_ ” Bucky says, his thoughts closing in on him.

Jennifer blinks at him. “Is he?”

“No—no! No! Why do people keep fucking _saying_ that? He’s not hurting me, okay?”

Jennifer pauses. “I never said he was hurting you. I asked you if he was worsening your symptoms.”

Bucky’s mind stalls, sputtering hopelessly. “Wh-what?”

She smiles softly. “For survivors of sexual assault, especially for prolonged periods of time, having their possible sexual partner live with them can be troubling.”

Bucky frowns. “Steve—he’s perfect. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jennifer studies him. “Bucky,” she states, cautious, “no relationship on this planet is perfect—even if Steve was perfect, it’s possible that just having him there could be too much for you. Sometimes outside factors can cause damage to a relationship.” She folds her hands. “If it’s bringing up memories of assault, like what happened last week, then it’s not healthy for you to—”

“Stop calling it that,” spits Bucky, and all of his muscles go taut.

“What?”

“Assault.” He glances at the door, half-expecting Steve to come barreling in. “It—that’s not what it is. Was. I was _willing_ , I asked for it, they fucking _paid_ me…” He rubs his forehead, scraping his nails along the length of his face. “It’s not the fucking same.”

She’s looking at him again, the way Steve looks at him when he breaks down, the way Wanda looks at him when he pulls his sleeves past his knuckles. “Bucky, they” —she’s careful not to say their names— “took advantage of you, even after you said no. They violated your rights to your own body, and that means they _assaulted_ you, whether or not they paid you afterward.”

Bucky shook his head, hiding his face in his hands. She didn’t understand, she didn’t fucking _understand._

She’s still talking, babbling on about free will and consent. “...so no matter what, your consent was compromised. If he attacked you while you were unconscious or drugged or blackmailed, then your consent was—”

— _his skull strikes against the headboard; blinding pain wails through his head, and he slides away from himself, pulled by an invisible string, and the rhythmic pounding inside him wanes._

_“Fuck,” he hears, and there’s a slap across his cheek, one stinging blow followed by another— “James! Hey!”_ _Bucky forces his eyes open, struggling to retain his consciousness. Brock’s face is above him, irritation staining his expression. “Good.”_

_The pounding picks up again, followed by a muffled groan, and Bucky slips away again—_

—Bucky’s whole mind darkens, all at once, like a lightbulb crushed beneath a thick-soled boot. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” His hands clench around the arms of his chair. “What the fuck do you know about all of this shit? You don’t!”

It isn’t until Jennifer’s standing up, clipboard set down, that Bucky realizes he’s standing, fists clenched and shoulders tense, shaking violently. When she puts her hand out, at first Bucky thinks she’s seeing him as the threat, trying to protect herself from him, but instead she takes his hand, completely calm as fearful anger vibrates through his body. He’s gripping his wrist with his prosthetic arm, so tightly that his bruises whine in protest. She pries his fingers away from his arm, and then she says quietly, as the circulation returns to his fingertips, “You’re not an angry person, Bucky.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky snaps. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

“I know enough,” she says, a firm declaration. “I know you love Steve more than life itself. I know you think you’re worthless. I know you’ve suffered, and that you’re still suffering now. I know that you use your anger, this uncontrollable anger inside of you, to try to protect yourself from being hurt even more—”

“No,” whispers Bucky, and he turns away from her, trying to escape her words.

“I know that none of what happened to you is your fault. I know that there are people who hurt you so badly that you didn’t think you could ever have a relationship again. I know—”

“Stop,” he says, and Jennifer does. It’s the first time in weeks that someone’s listened to him when he said that, and it startles him. “Stop.”

“I’m trying to help.” Jennifer’s sitting back down again, so he follows suit, some of his anger dissipating. “We can’t get through this if we don’t talk about what happened, Bucky.”

Bucky shakes his head one last time, and Jennifer sits back, letting out a soft sigh. 

They let him go home after that. 

* * *

Bucky doesn’t know what to do anymore. His life is crumbling before his eyes, returning to the broken, bloody fragments it was before Steve found him. 

He’s fucking sick of the trial—Steve continues to encourage him, reminding him that they have a good chance of winning, especially with the photos as evidence, but every time Bucky thinks about it, he feels sick to his stomach. He’s sick of the power dynamics and the disgusted stares and the fear that coils deep in the pit of his stomach. He’s sick of seeing the faces of the people who used him, over and over again. He doesn’t want to do this anymore.

And Steve… Steve keeps trying to love him, but Bucky knows it’ll fall apart, soon enough. Steve spends more time on the phone with Jennifer than talking to Bucky most days, anyway. He overheard her telling him things like _you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to help_ or _after the trial’s over it’ll be easier_ or _all you can do is be there for him_. Jennifer advises that they sleep apart, especially after what Bucky confessed, and it does ease the stress a little, but Bucky still finds himself sleeping in the bathtub sometimes. Brock fucked him in every bed in the apartment—it’s so hard to sleep where Bucky’s nightmarish sins lie dormant. So he takes the bathtub again, and sometimes he wakes up with a blanket or two thrown over him. Even in this fucked-up mess, Steve is still trying to care for him. 

Sometimes Bucky wonders if this would all be easier if he was gone. Steve could move on with his life and career, Wanda could live happily ever after with her boyfriend, even Jennifer could find a patient who was truly worth helping. And then Bucky wouldn’t have to endure this constant, horrible suffering. It’s no way to live.

* * *

A couple more weeks pass, weeks of Steve and Bucky dancing on eggshells around each other, trying not to set another fire. Steve tries everything to help him—offering different kinds of therapy, a separate apartment, anything—but Bucky refuses. He just wants to get through this, these next few weeks, to survive and then go back to the way it was before. 

Apparently, life doesn’t work that way; it fucks Bucky over instead.

Bucky’s showering again; he showers a lot these days, tries to scrub himself clean. He sits in the steamy bathroom for a while, absorbing the silence, drying gently over bruises and ropeburn. 

The door opens too quickly—Steve’s face comes too soon, before Bucky can fully cover himself with the towel, and there’s not enough towel and too many bruises and _fuck, Steve’s face is breaking— “_ Get out!” Bucky hisses. “Get _out!_ ”

The door slams closed.

Bucky locks it, trying to keep his little piece of safety; he can feel Steve on the other side, can feel his mind splitting with horror. He knows what Steve saw—layer upon layer of bruises, yellowed with age or freshly swollen, thin or wide, sharp or mottled.

The thought dawns on Bucky slowly, an insidious mass growing inside of his mind, and his heart explodes into a race of frantic pattering. Steve _knows_. He knows now that Bucky’s a fucking liar, that he’s been cheating on Steve for weeks, months now. He slumps against the door, but for once he doesn’t feel like crying. He’s too empty now, like his tears have been cruelly carved from his wounded chest. He just sits in the bathroom, leaning up against the door, and closes his eyes. 

An ache expands behind his forehead, screeching in his ears— _you fucking idiot, why weren’t you more careful, now he knows, he’s gonna kill you, he’s gonna fucking KILL YOU—_ and Bucky wraps his arms around himself, whimpering quietly. 

“Bu-Bucky?” Steve stammers, his voice muffled through the wood of the door. It’s not like before, when Steve was frantic with worry, banging on the door until he broke it open. Now, his voice is dripping with shock and concern, but he doesn’t try open the door; it’s unusually high, confused and disbelieving and hurting. “Baby, please, let me in—I’m not mad, not mad, I just wanna know“” —Steve’s voice breaks— “that you—you’re okay, I just wanna help.”

Bucky can’t stop shaking, his hands won’t listen to him, and he doesn’t want to face Steve, not in the fury that will surely come in the form of hot-knife hands and fingers pressing into his throat, pain and violation and unimaginable _hurt_ , so—he crawls into that safe space in the back of his head as Steve’s words fade away.


	2. too much (for my soul alone)

When Bucky finally returns to himself, he hears voices, crowding and clashing around him like cymbals. “...him to a hospital!”

“Steve, I swear to fucking God, this is not your choice to make! He needs your trust right now, and he can’t fucking trust you if you’re making his decisions for him!”

“Decision? There’s no decision to make! Look at him, Wanda! Really, seriously look at him! He needs a doctor!”

“You don’t know what he needs—if you did—he wouldn’t look like a fucking punching bag—”

“So you think it’s my fault! I didn’t do this! I’d never do this! I didn’t _know!”_

“Well, if you spent more time paying attention to his fucking _well-being_ instead of making paintings of his fucking _face—”_

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again—everything comes into half-focus: Steve’s distressed face, the ache between his shoulder blades, Wanda’s fierce hands, the verbal confrontation between them, the doorbell ringing—

Steve looks up mid-sentence, his shoulders relaxing a fraction of an inch.

Wanda glares at him. “Another? What, are you gonna drag the whole neighborhood in to see? We’ve already got Sam—”

“It’s his therapist,” Steve snaps. “Give me some fucking credit.”

He leaves in a darkened huff, hands curled into fists. Bucky’s never seen him like this before: combative, furious, so tense that he hunches his back and grinds his teeth. At the sight of such blatant rage, Bucky breathes in sharply, ready for Steve to whip around and turn those angry eyes to him. 

Wanda turns to look at him. “Bucky?”

It’s then, when Bucky automatically moves to tug on his sleeves, that he realizes he’s still mostly naked, sitting against the wall with a towel wrapped around his waist and, oddly, something soft draped over his shoulders—a blanket. He unclenches his fingers from their bruising grip around himself and pulls the blanket tighter around himself. “He’s mad,” says Bucky, unbearably quiet. It’s half a question and half an observation, but Wanda understands him nonetheless.

She kneels in front of him, scanning his expression. “No,” she answers, glancing momentarily to the door where Steve and Jennifer are having an intense, muffled conversation, “he’s just…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, instead looking back at Bucky—specifically, the vaguely hand-shaped bruises marring his entire torso.

Bucky fights the urge to shove her face away, to scream _don’t look at me, I know I fucked up, don’t look, don’t look_ , and instead wraps the blanket around himself and tries to cover as much of his chest as he can. Wanda’s gaze drops to his wrist. _Show me your arm_ , she said, all those weeks ago, when she knew what was going on. She knows that Bucky’s a liar, that he lied to everyone in his life, because his lies are written all over his body in hickeys and bruises and scars.

To his surprise, Wanda doesn’t scream at him or throw shit or give him a cold glare. Instead, she unfolds her legs and stands up, offering him her hand. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get you into something comfortable.”

Wanda’s not the kind of person to fuss over every little bruise—she checks Bucky for the worst of his injuries, and after determining that it’s not hospital-worthy, gets him some clothes to wear. Bucky changes alone in the bathroom, pulling sweats over aching limbs. 

He doesn’t want to go out there, to face what he’s done, but he has to. As he pulls on a hoodie over his long-sleeved shirt, Wanda shakes her head. “You can’t hide from this, Bucky.”

He ignores her comment and instead, after several beats of shaken silence, asks, “Can I come live with you?”

“Of course,” she answers, and she sounds tired, “but…” She sighs. “As long as you’re happy.” 

He nods, some of the panic in his chest easing.

“But why… Why do you want to live with me? Is Steve… Do you…”

Bucky gulps. This is the one question he can answer. “Because when Steve—when he kicks me out, I-I just wanna have somewhere to go.” Terror rises inside him, of times of living in park benches and sleeping in other men’s beds. “I don’t wanna go back, please, I don’t want—I c-can’t go back, I-I can’t—”

“Okay, okay,” she says finally, holding her hands up, “you can live with me, you know you’re always welcome, but Bucky…”

She tells him something about how Steve won’t be mad, how Steve loves him and will love him through this, but Bucky knows that’s not true. He saw Steve, saw how angry he was… This isn’t going to end wrapped in a bow. 

Bucky knows that, with what just happened, he just wrecked every last relationship he had.

* * *

When he and Wanda finally leave the bathroom and go into the kitchen, it feels like he’s walked into a courtroom. Steve sits across from him, flanked by Sam and Jennifer, while Wanda sits down next to him. There’s no tea this time, no steaming mugs of comfort, only Bucky and his countless lies. “Tell us who did this,” states Jennifer. She’s not asking this time; before, it was all tentative questions and half-trusted anecdotes, but here, she looks at him with those stern, caring eyes. 

Bucky picks at his cuticles. He doesn’t say anything, and the room seems to slant, revolving in that slow, pulsing way it only does when he’s done something terribly wrong. _Wrong, wrong, now they know what a lying slut you are, you can’t tell them about Brock, they’ll know you asked for it, you’re such a fucking liar—_

“Bucky,” Jennifer repeats, and Bucky trains his eyes on his hands, still lying clenched in his lap. “Bucky, look at me.” He obeys her, and his hands tremble. “You have to tell us who did this to you.”

Guilt aches like a stone in Bucky’s throat. He can’t tell them. He _can’t_. If he does, then they’ll go after Brock and Brock will know and Brock will testify and _fuck he can’t do this anymore—_ He curls his arms around his torso, leaning forwards a little bit, and shakes his head. _No._

“Buck” —it’s Steve this time, anger usurped by confused hurt— “baby, please, tell us.” Tears quiver in his eyes. “I can’t—I don’t understand why—did someone—why—why did you keep this from me?”

All eyes turn to Bucky, expectant, and the guilt grows tenfold, unfolding in his throat until he can’t feel anything else. He can’t answer, so he just looks down at the table. He winces as Sam speaks this time. “Did someone—did someone rape you?”

Bucky closes his eyes and shakes his head.

Sam starts to say something else, but Jennifer hushes him. “Language,” she says quietly. Then, with all the fucking knowledge of Bucky and his mind, she says, “Did someone give you those bruises during sex?”

Bucky can’t look at Steve—it’s too much, it’s too much, now he’ll fucking know—and he nods, slowly.

The room seems to explode around him, in dark hisses and tense words, and for a moment he forgets where he is—

— _you saw him, you know what happened—_

_—not yet, he’s not ready, he’s unstable right now—_

_—to a doctor, he needs to go—_

_—well, just look at him—_

_—needs trust, not you treating him like a fucking infant—_

_—didn’t know, I didn’t fucking KNOW—_

_—should have, it’s almost like you don’t care—_

_—have to find out who—_

_—I swear to God, I’m gonna kill whoever fucking did this—_

_—report to the police—_

_—photographic evidence, need to do it now—_

_—trust, fucking trust—_

_—not what’s important, we have to think about Bucky—_

_—if we don’t, we can’t get him, can’t kill that motherfucker—_

_—it’s not your decision to make, you think you know what’s best—_

_—I know that I’m gonna fucking tear him to pieces—_

_—_ and before Bucky knows what’s happening Steve is standing up and Bucky’s standing, too, stumbling over his chair in an attempt to get away, and then everyone’s standing, and everyone’s hand is a _hot-knife hand_ and Bucky’s holding his hands up, _no, no, he’s not ready, he’s hurting too much, no, god, please,_ and Jennifer says, slowly, “Steve, _sit_.”

Steve sits.

Bucky’s shaking, trembling, cowering against the wall because he knows what’s about to happen, knows that Steve’s gonna hurt him until he can’t walk, and when a hand comes into his tunneled vision, he flinches violently, jumping back. It’s only Wanda—five scarlet-painted fingers curl around his. She assures him everything’s fine, that he’s okay, that “Steve just got a little out of control—he’s not gonna hurt anyone, he’s not gonna hurt you, you’re okay, you’re okay…” and gets him to sit back down again. 

Jennifer says, “Steve. Outside. Now.”

They leave together.

* * *

Jennifer takes Steve out into the hallway by the elevator. He’s still breathing heavy, vision tinged red, and she snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Steve, you need to pull yourself together.”

“Pull myself together?” he echoes, voice low. “My boyfriend, the man I _love_ , has been attacked, for weeks, _months_ , even, and he’s sitting in the kitchen with fucking _bruises_ all over his” —his whole face tightens like a rubber band, and salty tears fester in his throat— “body, and I didn’t know, I didn’t _know_ , and all this time he’s been—”

Jennifer grabs him by both arms and _shakes_ ; she’s not particularly strong, but it’s a startling motion coming from someone who is normally so gentle, so Steve gapes at her. “Steve! You’re _scaring_ him!”

That stops Steve in his tracks. “I—what?”

“Look at yourself; to him, you’re a walking timebomb. Your anger is making all of this nearly impossible.” She exhales slowly, frowning. “Look, Steve, I get that you’re angry. Believe me, I do.” Her face darkens. “God knows, I wanna find whoever did this and wring their fucking neck. But we’re trying to help _Bucky_ right now, got it? Because right now he’s sitting in there, so terrified of you hurting him that he can barely talk!” 

Steve almost protests, to tell her that he’s only trying to help Bucky, but he knows better. He can feel the raw tension flooding through him—the thought that whoever hurt Bucky is still out there shakes him to his core, and he wants to rip them apart. “Your anger’s valid, Steve, but you can’t do this right now. You’re _terrifying_ him. He needs your love and support, not your anger. Did you see him in there? He flinches every time you _breathe_ , because he thinks you’re mad that he had sex with someone el—”

“It’s _rape_ ,” spits Steve, his words poisonous.

“I know,” explains Jennifer, “but to Bucky, it’s not. You and I both know that what he endured could not have been consensual, but he doesn’t. He used to think what happened with Pierce was consensual, even when he was being blackmailed, simply because he agreed to it. And if we refer to what happened as rape, it’ll just make him less likely to talk about it. Right now” —she holds up a finger— “we have one objective—figure out what the hell happened to him. And you’re preventing that from happening.”

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t mean… I didn’t…”

“I know,” she repeats, softer now. “It’s okay. You just… Just stay focused on Bucky now. He needs you more than ever.”

* * *

Although they go back in, asking Bucky malleable questions like, _Do we know the person who gave you those bruises?_ and _How long has this been going on?_ they don’t get much more out of him. Steve finally agrees not to take him to the hospital, simply because of the way Bucky looks at him any time he raises his voice or tries to take control. Jennifer tries to make it easy for Bucky to tell them, but he can’t say anything, so eventually he just drops his head to the table, trapping his head between his arms, so that he doesn’t have to face what he’s done.

The funny thing is, Bucky doesn’t want to leave Steve, and Wanda can’t understand it. “You barely function around him,” she protests, as Bucky pushes her out the door. “I don’t get it—you can come stay with me anytime, you know; you don’t have to feel obligated to stick with him. He’ll understand.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I love him,” he says, and it’s true. Even through this entire fucking mess, he still loves Steve with his whole heart. He’ll love Steve till his dying day, he knows. It’s the kind of love that permeates everything he does, the kind of love that got him through his worst nights and created some of his best days. And what’s more is that he still has to see Brock, no matter if he’s living with Wanda or with Steve, because Bucky loves Steve so much that he’d never want to make anything harm Steve or his career. No matter what, he just has to keep suffering, so he might as well do it with the one person he loves, even if he’s scared out of his mind. “I can’t.”

Wanda nods knowingly. “I know,” she says softly. “Just… Text me, okay? I know you don’t wanna—can’t talk about —that you—” She squeezes his hand. “If you need anything, I’m always here, okay?”

A little hesitant, she hugs him, and Bucky holds his breath; he’s ready, so fucking ready, for the other shoe to drop. He just hopes it’ll happen soon, so he can just get it over with. He’s sick of this anxious waiting burning holes in his chest. 

* * *

The other shoe drops five days later, on a Tuesday. Fucking Tuesdays. 

He missed his last meeting with Brock—the whole shitstorm from last week was on a Thursday, after all, and he couldn’t leave the house in the middle of it without Steve and Jennifer and everyone having a meltdown. They’ve been keeping track of him lately, switching off shifts watching him like he’s on house arrest. He turned his phone off last Thursday, too afraid of Brock’s fury to even look at his text messages. It’s still off, stuffed in the nightstand in the guest bedroom, where he now sleeps. 

Tuesday morning, Bucky’s trying to sleep on the couch, curled up beneath a couple blankets after a bad panic attack. The TV’s on, blaring something about a corrupt politician, and Steve and Wanda are in the other room, whispering to each other, when the phone finally rings. 

Steve picks up from the other room. “Hello?” Bucky can’t hear the other line from here, but he can hear Steve’s answer. “Um, he’s not… I’m sorry, who’s calling?” There’s a long silence. “Oh. Oh, well… Hold on.”

Bucky sits up. Steve’s having an intense conversation with Wanda, and Bucky only gets bits and pieces of it. “Who…?”

“Bucky’s...writing...”

“Give…”

“Can’t...phone…”

“Needs...freedom to…”

“...time…recover...”

“...can’t recover if…phone…”

Bucky doesn’t understand most of what they’re saying, but finally Steve gets back on the phone, says, “Gimme a second,” and finally walks into the living room.

Steve sits on the edge of the coffee table and holds out the phone to him. “Hey, baby,” he says, and he’s almost submissive in the way he moves, careful not to touch Bucky or surprise him. “There’s someone on the phone for you. But if… If it’s not a good time, I can tell them you’re sleeping?”

Bucky’s still lying down, head cushioned against the arm of the couch, and he rubs at his eyes. “No, it’s fine, I’ll take it. Who is it?”

“Your writing teacher,” Steve answers, and then the phone’s in his hand, cold and hard and merciless. 

Bucky presses it against his ear. He can barely breathe—terror snakes up his throat, freezing cold. “H-hello?”

“Are you alone?” 

It’s Brock fucking Rumlow’s voice in his ear, that same gritty tone he hears in his worst nightmares, the same raspy voice groaning in his ear, calling him _such a fucking slut, you fucking want it, take it, fucking take it—_

“Just answer, yes or no, slut.”

It takes Bucky a moment to realize that Steve doesn’t know what Rumlow _sounds_ like. He’s only seen pictures and listened to descriptions of the horrific things Rumlow has done. “Yes,” Bucky croaks. 

“Is pretty boy still there?”

Steve’s giving him that strange look from the other side of the room. “Yes,” says Bucky. 

“Make him leave.”

Bucky waves him away, _go the fuck away, you can’t be here,_ until finally he goes back into the kitchen. 

“Can he still hear you?”

_Fuck._ “Yes.”

There’s a snort of frustration. “Fine. Then I talk, and you fucking listen, got it? You missed our last meeting, _Bucky_ —so now you’re gonna pay up. Understand me, slut?”

“Y-yes,” Bucky chokes out. 

“Don’t be fucking pathetic—act _normal_ , I don’t need Steve fucking Rogers knocking at my door.” When Bucky doesn’t answer, he snarls, “Say okay, slut.”

Bucky gathers every bit of strength he has and chokes down his vibrating fear. “Okay.”

“Good. Now, in return for missing last week, you’re gonna do me a favor… I want you for a weekend.” 

_A weekend._ He squeezes his eyes shut. Three hours was already a fucking nightmare with Brock Rumlow, but a weeken—

“No. Scratch that. I want you for four days. Friday till Monday.” Bucky shudders. “I don’t care how you fucking do it—tell pretty boy you’ve gotta meet a friend or some shit, but I’m gonna have you, every way you can think of and more, this weekend. Say _of course, Professor._ ”

Bucky swallows a sob. “Of course, Professor.”

He can almost hear Brock’s smile in the other end. “Good. I want you at my place at nine am on Friday, understand?” His voice deepens, growing louder in the phone. “Say _I understand_ , slut.”

Bucky can’t even breathe. “I—I understand.”

“And James?” 

“Yes?”

“Don’t be late.”

Brock hangs up.

Bucky grinds his palms into his eyes and tries his hardest to keep the fucking darkness from taking him over completely. 

* * *

Bucky’s always been good at pretending. He was a sex worker, after all. He got fucked for a living—it was his job to make sure the other person feel good and pretend that he felt good, too, even if he hadn’t eaten in two days and hadn’t slept in three. He had to conceal his bruises and the lines under his eyes with makeup, had to smile and flirt with every possible customer, because otherwise he might not eat that night. He had to fake it, every single day for four years.

But when it comes to Rumlow, he can’t hide his earth-shaking, debilitating terror. Four days with Satan. Four days with the person who knows how to rip him apart, who makes police uniforms send flickers of panic through his whole body, who made 50th and 8th avenue a living hell, who’s made these past few weeks feel like he’s drenched in terror. He tries to keep it from Steve, but he knows something is up. 

* * *

“Bucky,” he says that night, after he finds Bucky heaving his guts out into the bathroom toilet. “Baby, please, god, tell me what’s wrong.” It’s breaking Steve, tearing him apart piece by piece, and it shows now, as Steve collapses beside Bucky, wiping away hurt tears from his face. “Baby, baby, _please_.”

And Bucky just stays quiet; the silence is a noose around his neck, tightening with every hour that passes.

* * *

On Wednesday, Steve finds Bucky sleeping in the bathtub again. He’s fully clothed, too, tears still shining on his face. Honestly, he doesn’t know what to do anymore; he can’t touch Bucky anymore—it’s like pushing him into a field of live bombs and waiting for something to explode. He spends hours of his time just _empty_ , staring off into nothing, rocking slowly. By Wednesday night, he’s locked and relocked the doors and windows dozens of times, but it’s clear he doesn’t feel safe. _Who did this?_ Steve wants to scream. He wants to know why Bucky can’t sleep with someone beside him, why Bucky can’t even walk into their bedroom anymore, why Bucky showers until his skin is red and blotchy.

He wants to know whose motherfucking hands left bruises all over Bucky’s body, but Bucky won’t _tell_ him, so there’s nothing he can do. He can’t force Bucky to say it. He can’t force Bucky to go to the police. He can’t force Bucky to go to the hospital and get a rape kit. All he can do is _be here_ , for Bucky, to hold him (even if he won’t let Steve touch him), to listen to him (even if he doesn’t talk), and to love him (even if he thinks he’s not worthy of being loved).

Steve wishes Bucky knew how much he loved him. 

* * *

On Thursday night, just as Steve is about to fall asleep, he hears a soft, hesitant knock at his bedroom door. _Bucky._ He throws his covers off and does his best to keep his heart from racing. “Buck?” On the other side, Bucky nudges the door open. It’s still dark, so he can barely make out Bucky’s outline in the hallway, but Steve knows it’s him. “You okay, baby?”

Bucky shuffles his feet near the edge of the doorway, like if he crosses into Steve’s bedroom, he’ll be cursed. “I just—can I—fuck, I just wanted—” He covers his face with his hands.

Steve edges out of his room and into the hallway. “It’s okay, babe, whatever it is, it’s okay, take your time.” He tries to keep the desperation out of his voice, but it’s impossible—Bucky hasn’t come to him for anything in weeks, hasn’t started a conversation like this… _Progress_ , Steve thinks, _just like Jennifer said_. “What do you need?”

Bucky’s doing that thing with his shoulders again, turning in on himself like a crumpled paper doll. “Can you—can you sleep—next to me? Tonight?”

Steve’s taken aback, and he’s glad it’s still dark in the hallway—otherwise, Bucky could see his shock. “I mean, if you want, baby, I just—are you sure? Is that what you want?”

Bucky’s barely moving in the moonlit hallway, shifting from one foot to another. “I don’t want to, um, be alone.”

Steve nods repeatedly, like a bobblehead, lost in the confusion of this moment. “Yeah, of course, baby, whatever you want, wherever, um…” He gestures, his movements choppy and slow. “You wanna go to your room?”

“No, um… Can we…” He turns away from Steve. “Fuck.”

Worry flits through Steve. “It’s okay, baby, wherever you want, we can go to my room, the couch, wherever…” Bucky still won’t answer. “We can even sleep on the floor, if you want, like we did when we were younger? Sneak up to the rooftop, sleep under a pile of blankets, listen to the cars go by, watch the stars… Remember that?”

A shaky half-sob, half-laugh. “Y-yeah.”

“Whatever you wanna do, Buck… Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Finally, Bucky turns back towards him, although he’s a little shaky. “Can we… Can we do that?”

“Sleep on the roof?”

An _mm-hm_ from Bucky.

“Yeah, of course, baby.” There’s an awful ache in Steve’s chest, something he can’t quite explain. “You get the pillows. I’ll get the blankets.”

* * *

It’s a beautiful summer night, and Bucky can’t seem to stop crying. The top of Steve’s apartment building is actually a rooftop garden, something kept up by an old couple in one of the other apartments, and Steve piles the blankets in between a patch of tulips and a row of tomato plants. The whole place smells like nature and nighttime and summer and _love_ , and when they slip between the blankets, somehow their breathing evens out—Bucky’s panicked breaths versus Steve’s cautious ones—until it feels like they’re one person again, two hearts beating as one. They’re lying down beneath at least five layers of blankets, facing each other, curled towards each other, not touching just yet. Bucky didn’t want to sleep in any place where Brock had fucked him—the bed, the guest room bed, the couch, the kitchen table… And Steve has somehow found the perfect spot, somewhere outside of Steve’s apartment, the place that Brock had so brutally violated, into a place that had no connection to Bucky’s guilt-ridden past. It only reminded him of the good days, before he and Steve split apart for years.

Bucky can’t stop fucking crying—tears slither down his face, gravity pulling them left across his face. Steve’s hand is between them, so Bucky takes it, relishing in that familiar feeling of _I love you_ , that feeling Steve’s been creating in his heart since they were little. This… This, right now, of sleeping beneath a starlit sky with Steve’s warmth beside him, is so nostalgic and beautiful and fucking _incredible_ that it takes Bucky’s breath away. “Steve?” he says finally, after miles and miles of time stretch between them. 

Steve’s beautiful blue eyes blink at him. “Yeah?”

“I…” He wishes he could say it, but he can’t. He’s too far in now—he’s taken Steve’s life and ripped it to shreds. Steve is the most precious thing he has. If he damaged Steve’s career, his livelihood… God, he’d never… He could never forgive himself. “I’m so tired.” He interlaces his fingers with Steve’s, lets out a shaky breath. “I’m so tired of being fucking afraid. Of you, of everything… Steve, I think”—his mind shrieks— “I think I’m b-broken.”

Bucky can hear Steve’s every breath, his every hitch before he speaks, like he’s watching it on a sonogram. “Buck—you’re not broken. You’ve just been hurt, so many, many times, and it’s okay to be afraid.” Something painful drifts in his gaze. “And you’re still being hurt.”

Bucky bites his lip. “I—I’m sorry.”

“Baby,” replies Steve, with that fucking beautiful smile, “there’s nothing for you to be sorry for.”

“I fucked up your life,” says Bucky, and his voice is already breaking, splintering at the seams. “I thought I could be him—the Bucky you love, the one you knew, that one—but I can’t. I’m not him anymore.”

“You’ve always been him,” whispers Steve, and more tears come, unwillingly, and slip down Bucky’s face, across his nose, down to the blankets. “And you always will be. No matter what happens, Bucky, no matter what you go through or what other people say, I’ll always love you.”

_I love you, too,_ say Bucky’s eyes, but his mouth asks, “Why?”

Steve’s fingers trace his. “Because you’re Bucky. Because you see people and you _care._ Because you love with your whole heart. Because you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, inside and out. Because you make me feel alive. Because you…” He sighs. “...god, because you deserve the whole world.”

Bucky’s quiet for a while, and so is Steve. He wants to ask about the man who hurt Bucky, about the one who left horrific bruises all over him, but he doesn’t. It’s not the time. Right now, he and Bucky absorb the love that they share; to his surprise, Bucky lifts their combined fingers to his mouth and then kisses each of Steve’s knuckles. Then he lowers their hands, closing his eyes, and winces. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we… Can you, um, turn, so I… Can you turn around?”

“Mm, hm…” Steve turns over into his side, so Bucky’s facing his back instead. “Why?”

Bucky’s guilt races through him, pattering in strange patterns through his chest. “Because—I don’t wanna face you, when I say this.”

Bucky doesn’t have any bravery left. He considers telling Steve, telling him that he’s been fucking Rumlow for weeks and it puts him through a meat grinder of emotions, and that’s why he can’t function anymore, but he _can’t._ He _can’t._ He’s not strong enough. He starts crying again, sobs he muffles with his hand. Steve, without turning around, reaches his hand behind him, and Bucky takes it, drawing closer to Steve so that they’re nearly flush against one another, and Bucky presses his face against Steve’s back. Briefly, he thinks about how men usually have him the other way, them pressing against his back and tightening their hands around his hips, but with Steve… He’s in control, and when he curls his arm over Steve’s side, he doesn’t tug Bucky’s arm forward or shove it away, just gently squeezes in recognition. “I’ve done some fucking—some really fucking bad things.”

If Steve were Jennifer, he’d be unpacking the definition of “bad things” and rewriting what Bucky believes to be bad in his past, but instead he just smiles. “And still, I love you.”

And Bucky doesn’t say it back. He doesn’t deserve to have those words in his mouth. He’s too dirty now to say _I love you_ , but he wishes he could. Instead, they lay there in the dark, Bucky curled against Steve, letting the love settle in the dark. “Steve?”

“Mm?”

“Can you forgive me?”

Steve doesn’t even take a breath before giving his answer. “Always.”

And they fall asleep side by side, in between the tulips and the tomatoes, dreaming of a better day.

* * *

Bucky leaves before Steve wakes up, sliding out from the pile of blankets. It’s already eight thirty when Bucky leaves the apartment building, and he walks to Brock’s apartment building, writing Steve a text along the way. It’s short, but it gets to the point: _i’m sorry. need some space. going to stay with wanda for a few. don’t worry._ He types _i love you_ but then deletes it.

He gets to Brock’s at around eight fifty, and he’s already ready. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says, and he kisses Bucky, long and wet and possessive.

Brock doesn’t usually kiss Bucky, so now it feels like a violation of what he thought was _safe_ , like it’s Steve’s hand trapping him by the back of the neck. Brock pulls back and watches his face, squeezing his neck tighter.

He grins when Bucky closes his eyes, feeling like his whole world has disintegrated. “Ready to take a trip?” He’s rolling some fucking luggage behind him, like a businessman. “I’ve got some friends who want to meet you.”

Alarms clang in Bucky’s head. _Friends_. “Um—” he starts, “I don’t—that wasn’t part of the deal—we—we can just stay here, you can do whatever you want—”

Brock whirls around, and Bucky’s so terrified in that split second that his mind freezes—his back is against the wall now, and Brock’s breath is hot against his neck, his body hard against Bucky’s. “Shut the fuck up, _Bucky_ ,” he growls, and Bucky’s whole body is a ball of rubber bands, tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter, and Brock presses against him— “The minute you broke the deal last week, all bets were off. You fuck with the rules, I fuck with you.” He chuckles to himself. “You can leave that fancy arm you’ve got there; where we’re going, you won’t need it.”

Bucky looks down at his prosthetic in horrified confusion. “No—no, it’s my _arm_ , I’m not just gonna leave—”

Brock slaps him across the face, so hard that it knocks him, gasping, to his hands and knees. “Leave the _fucking_ arm, Barnes!”

Then Bucky is whimpering and Brock is screaming and grabbing Bucky’s arm, pinning him down to take it off and finally he’s crying, “Okay, okay, o- _okay_!” And he takes it off slowly, the way one would take off a winter coat in a blizzard, and Brock snatches it from him, tossing it inside his apartment before locking the door behind him. “Stupid fucking bitch,” he mutters, as Bucky struggles with the fact that his _arm_ is gone again. He grabs Bucky by his right arm now, grip painfully tight, and forces him down one flight of stairs and into a small parking lot. 

He lets go of Bucky to fumble for his keys “Let’s go,” he says, jerking with his head at a small blue car; when Bucky doesn’t move, he slaps his ass, snapping, “Get fucking moving, we don’t have all day!”

Bucky gets in the car, even though every bone in his body is telling him to run. “Good boy,” says Brock, as Bucky buckles himself in. “We’re gonna have fun.”

Bucky’s mind is already slipping away. 

* * *

Steve doesn’t call Wanda until around noon, when he asks how Bucky’s settling in. “Settling in?” she repeats. “Um, he’s not here today, Steve. I thought he was still with you.”

Steve’s heart skips a beat. “He—he said he was gonna stay—with you, at your—”

He can hear Wanda on the other line, muttering, “Fuck, fuck, _fuck—”_ A clatter. “ _Fuck!_ ” A thump. “No, babe, no, I’m fine, just—ah, fuck, Steve, I’ll call you back, gimme a sec—”

Then the phone cuts off.

Something inside of Steve is clenching, pounding, throbbing, and he staggers a little— _where the hell is Bucky_ —trying not to think about all the fucking horrible things that could be happening to him right now. The panic is growing, swelling inside his chest, threatening to swallow him whole.

After calling and asking everyone he knows about Bucky, he calls Jennifer, and by then his words are already a blur of unabridged terror. “—and he sent me a text—b-but—I texted him this morning, he didn’t respond, I’ve tried so many _times—_ I know something bad happened, I can just feel it, I just know, he was acting different yesterday, like—like the world was gonna fucking end or something—”

“Steve, hey,” says Jennifer, and there’s a tone of panic deep under her voice, “slow down, just calm down. Tell me what happened.”

So he tells her, in fast fragments and broken breaths, what happened. And when he’s done, Jennifer goes quiet for a second. “Call the police,” she says first. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Okay,” replies Steve, but it doesn’t feel like enough, “but—”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Steve,” she warns, and with a stiff goodbye, she hangs up. 

* * *

Wanda calls him back within minutes, explaining that she called the police already, but they refused to file a report. So Steve marches down there, eyes blazing, like a fucking war tank, ready to blow up anyone who stands in his way. Wanda arrives a couple minutes later, and her presence calms him down a little bit. After waiting for too fucking long, they meet with a police officer named Officer Thaddeus Ross with a steel gaze and a heavy white moustache. His presence is so formidable that even Wanda, the one who was spitting fire at the officer on the phone earlier, cowers a little.

She’s meek and unsettled in a way that Steve’s never seen before, and she stares at her lap when he closes the door behind him and stomps toward the other side of the table. “Miss Maximoff,” he says. His voice is scratchy yet firm, like he smokes a little more than he should, but he doesn’t seem particularly violent. Just...powerful. He turns to Steve. “Mr… Rogers. I’ve heard about you. You’re all over the news.”

Wanda doesn’t say anything, resorting to pulling at the hem of her skirt instead. So Steve clears his throat and starts. “With all due respect, Officer, I want to file a report for a missing person, and we don’t have any time. I think he’s in danger, his name’s—”

“James Barnes,” finishes Officer Ross, and Steve blinks, taken aback. “I know, I’m well aware.” He sits down at last, the chair beneath him screeching across the floor. He slaps a file between them, and Wanda curls her arms around herself. “Your current...partner? Escort?”

“Boyfriend,” corrects Steve, and Ross chuckles. 

“Yeah. Whatever the hell you call it these days.” Anger flares in Steve’s heart, but he tempers it down quickly, knowing he needs Ross’ help to find Bucky.

Ross opens the file—it has BARNES, JAMES BUCHANAN printed on the front, as well as a shit-ton of numbers and personal info that Steve didn’t even know they had; there’s probably dozens of papers in there, and Ross spreads the entire pile in front of them. “Like I said, we’re quite familiar with Barnes. He’s got seven misdemeanors in the state of New York—even before that, we ran into him a few times. Prostitution, simple assault, more prostitution, battery, more prostitution… Your boy’s got more misdemeanors than limbs, Rogers.” He laughs to himself. “And beyond that, we’ve had people report him missing four times already, the last couple from Maximoff here. Every time, he was back a few days later. You’ve bailed him out more than once, haven’t you?”

Wanda flinches, and Steve doesn’t miss it. His entire body is tense, like any more that Ross says will make him snap completely. “He always comes back,” continues Ross, “like a damn cockroach, this Barnes kid.” He shrugs. “He’ll be fine, Rogers. I’d be more concerned about keeping him off of the streets, sucking every dick he finds—”

“You fucking _asshole!”_

Steve stands up so fast that Ross has his gun out by the time he’s on both feet, and he snarls, “Down, Rogers!”

Steve doesn’t move. Beside him, Wanda’s tugging on his arm, muttering quietly, “Not now, Steve. Please.”

Ross still has his gun aimed at Steve’s head. “Sit. _Down_. Or I’ll put a bullet through your head right here, right now.”

Every fiber in Steve’s body wants him to put up his fists and pound Ross into the ground, but somehow Wanda pulls him back into his seat; she grabs his hand and holds it tightly.

Ross tucks his gun back into its holster like he’s popping a piece of gum back into his mouth and slumps back into his chair with a look of satisfaction. “As I was saying, your _boyfriend_ has a lot on his record. And the station only has so many resources.” He shoves the pile of papers in Steve’s direction and stands. “So put up your missing posters, Rogers, ‘cause Barnes abused the system for too long. We gave him his chance” —Ross shrugs— “seven times, and he chose to ignore it. I’m afraid we just can’t help you.” As he moves to the door, he places one patronizing hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Some people just can’t be saved, Rogers.”

Then he leaves, all heavy steps and annoyed glances, so he and Wanda are alone.

When the red-hot fury finally fades from his vision and his fingertips, he turns to Wanda—her nervous hands are gathering Bucky’s papers into a neat pile. Her shaking hands are the only sign of any emotion—her face is a blank slate, her eyes dull and empty like she’s drawn inside of herself. 

Steve knows the look too well; he’s seen it on Bucky countless times. Bucky… “I didn’t know he was arrested…” he begins quietly, still buzzing from the shock of what just happened.

Wanda tucks all the papers back into the folder they came in, handing it to him. “He was a prostitute, Steve,” she answers, her voice flat. “What did you expect?”

* * *

Jennifer’s not surprised, either. She sits down with Steve and Wanda at the kitchen table, flipping through the file that Ross gave them. She’s spread them out on the table in front of them chronologically; each one has Bucky’s mug shots plastered across the front, and as time goes on, he watches Bucky’s face grow more and more gaunt, his skin grayer, his hair thinner, his eyes emptier. In some of them, there’s mascara blurred beneath his eyes, or concealer smudged over his cheeks. In a few, his face is still swollen and bloody, like he’s just gotten away from Pierce or Rumlow and some other motherfucker with lust and malice instead of blood running through his veins.

Steve doesn’t know what to make of it all. The first arrest came when he was barely eighteen, for prostitution, and the look in Bucky’s eyes in that mug shot chills Steve to the bone. He just looks so _devastated_ , like a deer staring into the barrel of a hunter’s rifle, and guilt grips Steve’s heart and squeezes painfully—he wasn’t _there_ for Bucky when he needed him the most. According to the records, Bucky served one month in prison for it because he couldn’t pay the two-hundred dollar fine they issued him. _A month in prison._ Thirty days in a goddamn cell because he didn’t have two hundred goddamn dollars. And Steve never knew. Not that he was arrested or fined or imprisoned… 

The second arrest was for simple assault, only a few months after Bucky got out of prison. “I don’t get it,” Steve says. “Bucky wouldn’t… Bucky wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“When someone’s trying to rape you,” says Wanda harshly, “you do a lot of things you wouldn’t usually do.”

Steve’s confusion dissipates quickly, a knife slicing through the fog. _No…_ “They arrested him for…”

Wanda nods. She hasn’t spoken much this whole time, only giving Steve these saddened, knowing looks as he reads through the files. “For fighting back. Yeah.”

“Do you know who…”

“Does it matter?”

No. It doesn’t. And Steve knows, deeply, that none of this matters right now—it was years ago, and Bucky’s missing now, but right now he just feels so goddamn _helpless,_ and the only thing he can do is go through these fucking files and try to piece together why Bucky is gone.

He turns to the next. Bucky’s nineteen this time, with dark eye makeup smeared over his face. Arrested for prostitution. Fined two hundred and fifty dollars—paid in full, in scattered cash.

A month later, caught again, prostitution. Fined three hundred dollars—paid two hundred and thirty-seven dollars, served fourteen days in prison.

Four months later, the police were called after an attack on a wealthy man named Richard Bowers. Bowers claimed Bucky attacked him, tried to solicit him, and then robbed him when he refused. “That’s not true,” Steve says out loud, and then he looks to Wanda. “Bucky, he wouldn’t…”

She nods, fiddling with the clasp of her purse. “When you’re hungry, sometimes… You get desperate, Steve. Guy didn’t pay the full fee, after Bucky did what he asked, so…”

According to the file, Bowers woke up, called the police, and they found Bucky the next day with Bowers’ wallet still on him, only some of the money gone. Bucky was charged with third degree robbery, prostitution, and battery, but the robbery charges were eventually dropped because only a few dollars were spent. He received a three thousand dollar fine, as well as two months in prison, but he was let go early, after only forty-three days. 

There’s a couple more records of Bucky’s run-ins with the police—several officers claiming to have seen him “soliciting” someone, a couple homeless shelters that complained of him—followed by two more arrests for prostitution the following year. The first, he was fined for two hundred dollars, which he paid in cash, and several days in prison, and the second, he was fined for five hundred dollars after getting caught with an unnamed man by the police, alongside dozens of other prostitutes and “johns” at an illicit club. This fine, however, was paid not in cash but by a check from a man named Thaddeus Ross. As in, Officer Thaddeus Ross. How the hell… 

“He didn’t do it because of his loving generosity,” mutters Wanda, who’s sitting beside him, leaning over to look at the files. “He did it because I asked him to.”

Steve stares at her, bewildered. “You…”

“The club they’re talking about? The one the police raided? There were dozens of people arrested that night, including Bucky, and I’d already bailed out a friend of mine, and I couldn’t get the money together for Bucky.” Her shoulders slump a little. “So I offered to do some favors for Ross, and he let Bucky go.”

Everything and nothing at all makes sense. The way Wanda acted around Ross today, like she was a puppet with her strings cut. “I thought you were—Bucky said—you didn’t—”

“I did,” she confesses, “when I was desperate. People who lived like us? Like me and Bucky back then? Before we found a good spot, before we knew what it was like to have a home… We did everything we could to survive.” She taps her long fingernails against the table. “And sometimes… Sometimes surviving means doing something you said you’d never do—blow a stranger, rob someone, beat up someone, _whatever_. You do some fucking terrible things.”

_I’ve done some fucking—some fucking bad things,_ Bucky said last night, with that terribly dark look in his eyes, like he’d never be happy again.

Steve turns to the last arrest, which was only five months before he found Bucky on that fateful night. Another prostitution arrest, close to where Steve lives, after a neighbor called the police on Bucky sneaking out of someone’s house. Fined five hundred dollars, which he couldn’t pay, so they gave him a month in prison instead.

He doesn’t know what to do with all of this. “He didn’t tell me,” he whispers, and his head is in his hands. “God, I should’ve known. I should’ve asked. I should’ve…” He looks up at Jennifer. “Do you think… Why… Why would he go?”

She frowns. “Bucky was being attacked, Steve. Maybe he thought that leaving was the safest thing for him—are you sure he left voluntarily?”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m not sure of anything, not anymore.”

* * *

Everything fucking _hurts_.

Rumlow took him to this seedy motel where men used to take Bucky, and he meets Johann Schmidt there, a name that’s Russian or German or whatever that sticks to his tongue like sand. He’s met him a couple times before, but it was never like this. 

This time, Johann was a fucking monster, and now Bucky’s tied facedown to the bed, and there’s fucking pain in stripes all over him, pain so vivid and violent that it’s all starting to blur together like one massive avalanche of _hurt_. 

Johann and Brock are in the other side of the room; Bucky can hear them, but he can’t see with this fucking _blindfold_ , and his whole body’s on edge—

_—a good fuck, just like you promised—_

— _payment, because we didn’t over the phone—_

_—but it’ll be more from the others—_

_—per hour or per person—_

_—person, they already want to meet your little one-armed slut—_

_—gonna make you a fuckton of money—_

_—so fucking breakable—_

_—_ and Bucky presses his face into the pillow, sobbing silently, because he’s in so much _pain_ and he can’t even move, can’t even see, and he’s terrified, waiting for the next blow, for the next person grabbing him around the throat, the next hand sliding up his leg, slapping him, punching him, and they’re talking about fucking _payment._

He wishes he could’ve just stayed in bed with Steve, curled underneath the blankets with him—but now there’s a skinny hand on his hip and it’s _squeezing_ and whispering, “Hey, sweetheart, ready for another round?” and sliding up his waist to the scarred, ugly nub where his arm used to be and fucking _caressing—_

This is the first day. 

Bucky would rather die than do three more.

* * *

Steve would rather die than spend the rest of his life like this—an aching hole in his heart where Bucky usually is, now filled by missing posters and criminal records and a pile of blankets that Mr. and Mrs. Pym found beside their tomato plants.

The days are agonizingly slow. No one finds _anything_ about Bucky. No one’s seen him, no one’s heard from him, _nothing_. His phone is dead, unable to be tracked. There’s no sign of him _anywhere_. By the second day, he goes to Tony in an act of desperation, begging him to create some kind of technology that can help find Bucky.

An annoyed snort is Tony’s response. “Maybe Bucky needed to get off your leash for a couple days, Steve—my god, you’re possessive. Let the man live his life, Steve. He’s probably just taking a brea—”

“Cut the bullshit, Tony,” growls Steve, and his voice breaks. “I can’t—not from you, please? Not you.”

That gets his attention. Steve’s been irritated, amused, even infuriated by Tony’s incessant commentary. But he’s never been _hurt_. He’s never pleaded like this before. “Okay, okay… I’ll see what I can do.”

Tony attempts to track Bucky’s phone, but it doesn’t work, so he tries something new. As he’s speaking, he’s tapping on a dozen fucking screens, one popping up after another, displaying series after series of numbers, chemicals, and code. “I don’t know,” he explains, “if this will work, but I think it just might.”

Steve follows him like a lost puppy as Tony moves from one computer to another, from one lab to another, back and forth and back and forth until finally he can’t stand it. “What are you doing?” Steve asks, almost exploding with impatience.

Tony startles, like he forgot that Steve was even there. Then he gives him a strange look before shaking his head. “Sorry,” he says. “I forget people can’t follow what I’m doing sometimes—I’m trying to create a program that will scan the city for highly concentrated portions of carbon fiber and pyro glass.”

Steve stares blankly at him.

“The arm,” Tony clarifies. “It’ll locate Bucky’s arm.”

Hope tickles Steve’s neck and rises into his face. “You can do that?”

Tony shrugs, spinning around to type at another computer screen. “I’m Tony Stark,” he reminds Steve. “If I can’t do it, no one can.”

He sends Steve home then, promising to keep him updated on the computer program. “We’ll find him, Steve,” Tony promises. “It’ll turn out okay, I’m sure.”

With every hour that passes, Steve finds that harder and harder to believe.

* * *

He goes straight from Tony’s to Maria’s office, where he’s supposed to go with Bucky to talk about possible questions he’ll be asked during the trial. Steve hasn’t told Maria yet, and when he arrives without Bucky by his side, she doesn’t say much. “When Bucky gets here,” she says, opening up her laptop, “we can continue working on those questions. We can start with the easier ones…” She trails off; Steve’s rubbing his hands together, glancing to the side, and his feet won’t stop shifting on the wood-paneled floor. “Steve? Is everything okay?”

He shakes his head. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“About Bucky,” he clarifies, watching Maria for her reaction. “His record.”

It’s like Maria is a balloon—the air fizzles out of her, sapping the strength from her shoulders. “Yes.”

“And you…” Steve tried to stifle his anger, but it’s close to impossible. “You didn’t _tell_ me?”

Maria flinches. “He asked me not to.”

“You—did you talk about it? With him?”

It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there: she winces, pulling back from Steve a little. “A couple times. It wasn’t exactly…helpful for the case, for Bucky’s side, so we thought we’d keep it under wraps unless they mentioned it.” She hesitates. “I’m sorry, Steve. Bucky’s my client, and he didn’t want you to know. He thought it would… He thought you’d be angry if you knew.”

“But you know I wouldn’t—”

“I know. But he didn’t.” She rubs her forehead. “He didn’t want to tell you, so I dropped it. How did you find out?”

Steve stands up, walking to the window. The people below look like insects, flitting from one building to another. He bets none of them are in the pain he’s in right now. “I went to the police station yesterday.”

Maria looks up. “Why?”

“To file a missing persons report.”

“For who?”

“Bucky,” he says, and that lone word is stuffed with so much emotion that Steve suddenly has trouble keeping himself upright.

“For Bucky?”

“He left,” he croaks. 

“Left? What—what do you mean?”

Steve tries to explain as best as he can, talking about the mysterious bruises and Bucky’s deteriorating mental health, all the way up until his sudden disappearance. “He was acting weird Thursday night, but I thought he was getting _better_ , not that he would—would just go like this.”

Maria’s sitting up in her chair now; this is the version he sees in the courtroom, all business. “And he left of his own free will?”

Steve has already been asked that by everyone he told, and he isn’t sure how to respond anymore. “Yes?” he says, more of a question than an answer. “I think he knew… He knew he had to leave in the morning.”

“Had to?” she echoes.

“I don’t think he wanted to.” Steve gulps. “He asked me… Before he left, he asked me to forgive him. I didn’t know what for—I assumed it was about him not telling me, or for...” He sighs. “I don’t know. I just wish I could read his mind. I’m just so fucking _worried._ ”

She’s frowning, the gears in her mind spinning. “I haven’t worked with a lot of cases like this one,” she begins, and she folds her hands, “but I know something has to be wrong here.”

“I know,” Steve responds sadly. “I know, I know.”

“Can you think of anywhere he would go? Anyone he would trust to keep him safe?”

“Wanda,” he lists, “Sam, Nat, Peggy, Scott, Jennifer… But I’ve already _tried_ them. Anyone he’s friends with. And no one’s heard from him.”

“Okay…” Maria closes her laptop. “Then maybe someone who would hurt him, force him to leave?”

A dozen names run through his mind, friends, enemies, colleagues, but one pounds in his chest: _Alexander Pierce._

“No,” Maria states, as soon as he tells her. “Pierce wouldn’t do that.”

“If you think he wouldn’t,” snaps Steve, his words dripping in loathing, “then I don’t think you know him at all.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she continues. “Pierce is a malicious, cruel, violent man, that’s true, but he’s a smart man, too. If he went within ten feet of Bucky Barnes before the trial and the media found out, the whole case would swing in Bucky’s favor.”

“He doesn’t care—”

“He does.” Steve shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “His reputation, his career, and his life are on the line. I know him—it’s all he cares about. If we win, we destroy everything he holds dear. Trust me, he won’t touch Bucky as long as there’s still a good chance he will win.”

Steve slumps back. “Fine. Then where else could he be?”

Maria taps her pen against her chin. “Maybe he wouldn’t go to a person. He might’ve gone to a place instead.”

“Like a shelter?”

“Sure. Or...a refuge. Like a library, a club, something like that. Somewhere he feels safe.”

The first thing that comes to mind is Bucky’s writing class, so Steve suggests that. “He was always itching to get out of the house to go there. I mean, Bucky is always late—too everything—but he left early for that every time, always came home late…”

“What’s it called?”

Steve has trouble remembering; Bucky only told him once or twice, mumbled into a plate of leftover Italian: a community college fifteen minutes away named after a president, but he can never remember which one.

“Quincy Adams,” Maria remembers. “Yeah, we can give them a call.” She puts the phone on speaker, and they go through several rounds of being on hold before finally they reach the creative writing teacher, a Professor Louis Brown. “Professor Brown?” asks Maria.

“That’s me. What can I do for you?”

Maria introduces herself before asking, “Have you seen your student Bucky Barnes lately?

She assumes that he’ll say something like _that’s the quiet one, right_ or _no, he missed my last class,_ but instead he asks, “Who?”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” she says. “He’s taking your creative writing class this semester.”

There’s an odd beat of silence. “Um,” says the professor, “I don’t have a creative writing class this semester.” Maria glances at Steve—he’s gone pale, like he’s just seen a ghost. “Last semester, though...” A quick, murmured conversation. “Hold on.” Some shuffling, like he’s getting up from a chair. followed by an unintelligible conversation, and more shuffling, before finally he sits back down and clears his throat. “James Barnes, you said?”

“That’s right,” answers Maria. 

Another awkward cough. “Well, I mean… He signed up for one of our classes last semester. We didn’t, um…” It’s strange to Maria that someone with so much education has this much trouble explaining what he knows about Bucky, but she waits patiently. “We, um, declined his application.”

“Declined?”

“Y-yes, Ms. Hill.”

“Why?”

“Well” —another cough— “we check the, um, criminal records of all of our applicants, and his… Well, we didn’t want someone with…”

“With what?” she asks coldly.

“Well… I mean, Barnes had a _record_ , you must understand. Assault and, um, prostitution and everything.” Brown says the word _prostitution_ like it’s dirty and he has to scrub his tongue clean. “We couldn’t have him, well, _influencing_ the rest of the students.”

“Thank you, Professor,” snaps Maria. “That’s enough. Have you seen him or not?”

“I’ve never even met him in person,” Brown confesses. “It was an online application. If you tell me what he looks like, then…”

“He has one arm,” Maria cuts in. She’s sick of this conversation, sick of people treating Bucky like he’s poisonous. 

“Ah,” says Brown. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t seen him. Good luck with your search, Ms. Hill.”

Maria hangs up on him. “The nerve of him,” she says, irritated. “Declining Bucky’s application…” She stops, looking again to Steve.

Steve’s slumped forward in his seat, his shoulders shaking. He’s crying–Maria’s never seen him cry before. She passes him a tissue from the box on her desk and slowly moves across the room to him, giving him a little pat on the shoulder. She doesn’t know what to do here. Usually, when Bucky’s struggling, she leaves the room to give him and Steve some space, but now… Now, she’s supposed to be the comforter. 

Instead, she tells this distressed, crying man, “We’re gonna find out what happened to Bucky. I promise.”

After a few seconds, Steve inhales, his breath trembling in his chest, and looks her in the eye. “Tony told me that, too,” he says, “but I’m still here, and Bucky’s still God-knows-where, and we don’t know a goddamn thing.” He runs his hands over his head, trying to collect himself, and Maria passes him another tissue. “It’s been three days, Maria, and I’m already fucking falling apart. I can’t keep _living_ like this.”

“I know,” Maria replies. “We’ll figure it out. We will.”

He nods, taking his tissue and crumpling it in his fist. “We’d better.”

* * *

Shuri’s tired of this motel—its dark corners, its unknown smells, its hidden pains, its muffled screams. In her home country, a small African nation, she was going to be an engineer, one who developed technology for the best and brightest in the entire country. Here, her dreams were trampled and run over. Her mainly computer-based education using foreign coding languages, foreign words, and a foreign system is useless. To America, she is an uneducated, stupid black teenager with barely a penny to her name.

This motel job is mind-numbingly boring, but at least while she works she can daydream about her future—her intelligence, her advancements, her inventions. Her brother, T’challa, works here, too, as a security guard; they’re saving money so that he can go college here and finally start their real future. She’s only fifteen, so she can’t go to college just yet, so for now, she has to help her brother get there first.

Shuri’s pushing a cart full of fresh linens and supplies down the hallway on the third floor, knocking on each door that doesn’t have a do-not-disturb sign hanging on it. “Housekeeping!” she calls out, knocking half-heartedly. She’s exhausted. She’s been working since three this morning, and her voice sounds like a horde of cockroaches. 

There’s no answer. That’s her cue; she pulls out the master key from the apron tied around her waist and unlocks the door, shoving it open with her hip before pulling the cart behind her. She fiddles with the vacuum; it’s been acting up lately, but it finally turns on after she kicks it a couple times. She pulls on a set of headphones first and starts humming to some Maroon 5 as she vacuums the hallway. She inches her vacuum across the carpet, and then moves towards the bed, humming, _look for the girl with the broken smile, ask her if she wants to stay awhile_ —

—and Shuri drops the vacuum with a sharp squeal of shock. There’s a naked man on the bed, a white man with shaggy dark hair and one arm missing, sprawled facedown on the bed, and he’s not moving, _not moving,_ handcuffed to the bed, there’s blood smeared between his legs and bruises splattered over his body, and he’s still _not moving_ –

—she runs out of the bedroom, through the hallway, tripping past her cart and everything until she’s back in the main hallway, chest heaving, panic racing through her like a bullet train. She’s never been so shocked in her life. There was a dead man in room 343, or probably dead, and there was blood… She tried not to think the word _rape_ , but there it is, pounding and pressing against the front of her head. She can barely breathe, and the shock of what she just saw continues to climb up her throat and into her face, she has to _do something_ , even though all she wants to do is wipe her mind clean. She takes a few more gaspy breaths and stands up, bolting down the hallway. She runs into her best friend, Peter, another kid from her school who works here as a janitor, and he’s listening to music, singing and swaying and bopping as his headphones blast, dancing and dragging the mop across the floor—she grabs his arm, yanking him forward, and his eyes fly open, “What the—Shuri?”

Shuri’s still shaking, and she clenches her fists to keep them from trembling so much. “I need you—now, come on—”

“What’s wrong?” She tugs him forward without thinking, and he drops the mop to follow her. “Shuri—hold on, tell me what—” By then, they’re already in front of the door, and Shuri’s shaking like a leaf, and Peter grabs her shoulder. “Wait—dude, stop, what’s happening? You’re seriously freaking me out, what’s up?”

Shuri just shakes her head and points at room 343.

“What is it?” He laughs nervously. “If someone took another shit on the bed, I swear I’m not going in there—”

“No, Peter,” she snaps, and her accent is so much thicker now, like it always is when she’s upset, so Peter’s smile drops from his face.

“Okay, okay, I’ll look,” he assures her, nudging the door open. He’s still talking, jabbering away as he enters the hallway and heads to the first room. “...and there were _centipedes_ , a whole family of them, and you know those things freak me out, I can do any amount of grime, but centipedes? No way. With all the little legs and their little squirmy—” He stops, goes painfully quiet, and now Shuri knows he’s seen it. Peter Parker doesn’t do quiet. “Um—what the fuck, what the actual fuck—Shuri?” She enters the room behind him, and then they’re both there, hovering in the doorway, glancing and looking away and then looking back again at the horrific sight in front of them. “Is that… Is he… Is he dead?”

“I don’t know,” Shuri answers honestly, and the shock is back, curling around her ribs and crawling down her back. “I don’t know, he looks dead, _I don’t know_ —”

“Shuri,” says Peter, and it’s clear in his voice that he’s close to freaking, too. “English.”

She accidentally moved back into Xhosa, the native language of her country, as she usually did when she was distressed, and she had to physically think about it to go back to English again. “Sorry, um… I do not know. He—he looks…”

“Should we...check?”

Shuri nods, looking again to the naked man on the bed. He looks like someone threw him into a boxing ring—there are bruises all over him, purples and yellows and grays and blues, so many that his battered body looks more alien than human. As they creep to the other side of him, they can see his face. He looks _young_ , his face pale, his cheekbones sharp, stubble growing over his lifeless cheeks—the left side of his face is blackened and swollen, blood trickling from a cut below his eye. His other eye is puffy and red, so large that they can’t tell if it’s open or closed, and there’s something around his mouth, a cloth or strap or something to keep him from making any noise. He’s gotta be in college, maybe just out of college, around her brother’s age. Her _brother_ ’s age. Shuri presses a shaky hand to her mouth. She’s gonna vomit, she’s gonna puke all over this floor—Peter looks the same, the sight of this man making his knees wobble, his face going green.

To their relief, they can see the slight rise and fall of his torso as they get closer, although it’s shallow. “He’s a-alive.” There are stains around him, on the sheets, the covers, _on_ _him,_ and Peter breathes in sharply. He doesn’t say it, and neither does she, but they’re both scared out of their minds. “Shuri,” he says nervously, eyeing the handcuffs. There’s three sets of them, one around the man’s wrist and the other locking each ankle. And there are these _marks_ , bruises, bloody circles around each limb, like he thrashed, fought against his restraints until the metal cut into him and blood welled in his skin. “Who—what do we do?”

Shuri swallows. “D-don’t ask, don’t tell.” It’s the motel’s policy. If the governor of New York shows up with a girl half his age at the motel, it is their policy to look the other way. In return, police officers look the other way to all the undocumented immigrants (like Shuri and her brother) who make up ninety-five percent of the workers at the motel, Peter being one of the rare exceptions. But now… the policy burns a hole in her mouth. “No… I don’t know.”

They look back at the man—the swollen, purpling handprints, the handcuffs, the gag, the blood between his legs… “There’s no way this is—this is—consensual, right?”

“He is unconscious,” she whispers, confirming Peter’s comment. “But even if he was not…”

Peter just nods in agreement. “Yeah…” Then he yanks off his janitor’s gloves, one after another, and inches closer to the man. 

“What are you doing?” she hisses. “Do not—”

Peter shushes her and keeps moving until he’s at the head of the bed by the man’s head. Then he leans down and whispers, “Hello? Hey, you okay?”

“He won’t—”

Peter snaps in front of his face. No response. Then, without completely thinking it through, he taps the man’s shoulder; Shuri takes an automatic step back. Another tap, followed by: “Hey. Hey, man. Wake up.” Still no response. Peter pulls back now, stepping back to stand beside Shuri. He’s shaking a little. “We gotta do something.”

“But what?” They can’t call the police. If they did, most of the workers would be arrested, detained, deported, torn from their families… Including Shuri and her brother, T’challa. “You know we cannot…”

“Yeah…”

“Then what?” Shuri asks. “We cannot remove the handcuffs, let alone—”

“ _Shh_!” Peter grabs her arm—there are voices in the hallway, male voices, coming closer and closer to the room they’re standing in right now. “We gotta get outta here. Now.” There’s not enough time to run out of the room, not enough time to tell the four male voices coming towards the room that they _didn’t see anything, please don’t kill me—_

He tugs her deeper into the room, past the small kitchen area, past the bathroom, and onto the balcony. He swings one leg over the railing, whispering to himself like he always does, “C’mon, Peter, c’mon, you’re not gonna die today—” and then the other leg, too, bracing himself and dropping his legs and dangling with just his hands in view before dropping onto the balcony just below with a startled yelp. Then he hisses up at Shuri, “C’mon, dude! Now, get out of there!” But when Shuri tries to swing one leg over, the cleaning supplies hanging from her apron catch on the railing, and then she clatters ungracefully back onto the balcony just as the key goes into the motel room door and Peter’s looking up at her and there’s _not enough time—_

_—_ and she bolts back into the motel room, flings open the closet door, and crams herself inside just as the motel room opens and a raspy voice booms, “Honey, I’m _home!_ ” in a cruel, sing-songy voice. 

Shuri might’ve just made the worst mistake of her life.  
  



	3. i'm alone with you (you're alone with me)

Sunday night, Steve’s printing out more missing person posters when he gets the call. “Get your ass over here, Rogers,” says Tony on the other line, almost giddy with excitement. “I found him.”

He’s never driven so fast in his life. He gets to Tony’s place in record time, and Tony meets him at the front and guides him inside. “I set up my AI to do a scan of the whole city,” Tony explains, “and it took a while, because it’s gotta go deep, through so much shit just to be able to even recognize such a concentrated compound of—”

“I don’t care about the semantics,” growls Steve, and it comes out a lot harsher than he wants it to. “Just tell me where he is.”

Tony’s taken aback by Steve’s sudden bluntness, but he does it anyway, pointing to the topmost screen in his lab. “The computer gave me the coordinates relative to Earth of the arm, and I did some rough calculations to find out where it was.” He hands Steve a piece of paper with an address scribbled on it. “This was Bucky’s location about earlier tonight. It hasn’t changed since my computer system first located it, and that was over twenty-four hours ago.”

Steve stops frantically plugging in the address to his phone to stare, eyes narrowed, at Tony. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Tony continues, “that something’s wrong here.”

Steve doesn’t want to think about what Tony’s inferring, but he can’t help it. Bucky hasn’t moved in over twenty-four hours, which must mean… He shakes his head. “No. You probably ran your program wrong. Found some guy’s carbon-fiber nightstand instead of Bucky’s arm.”

Tony grimaces, but he doesn’t argue. “Okay, Steve,” he says. “Just… Whatever you find, be careful, okay? The apartment he’s in… I did a little searching” —Tony’s more delicate way of saying _hacking_ — “and found the place is under the name Brad Russell, but I couldn’t find any actual information on this guy, so I’m assuming it’s a fake name. So just… Be careful. I made you a key” —he hands Steve a small, green key card— “that’ll get you into the building without much trouble, so you just gotta get to the fourth floor, apartment 440.” He smiles sadly. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he says, echoing Jennifer’s words.

Steve knows why people keep telling him that— _stupid_ has always flooded through Steve’s veins for as long as he can remember, back when he was getting into fights with bullies in grade school or sneaking out with Bucky through high school. And when it comes to Bucky… Steve’s _stupid_ comes back full force.

* * *

He drives to the address Tony gave him with a kitchen knife stashed in back of his jeans, wrapped in an old T-shirt he found in his car. It’s a nice apartment, not at all what he was expecting; a young father chases his three kids squealing around the front of it, mock-yelling, “Get in the car, or the tickle monster’s coming to get you!” Three small children scatter over the front yard, one grazing Steve’s leg. Steve expected… He doesn’t know. Certainly not this. Maybe… Maybe Bucky is okay after all. Maybe he just needs a break. He tries thinking that, momentarily, but his gut tells him, _no, something isn’t right._

When he arrives at the front door, he flashes Tony’s self-made key card over the sensor; with a _beep_ , the next set of doors open for him, and he stuffs the card back in his pocket. He dodges the gaze of the clerk there and slips into the elevator beside a very pregnant mother, her young son. “Are you new here?” asks the mother with an earnest smile.

Steve coughs nervously. “Um, no, just picking something up for a friend of mine.”

“Oh,” says the father, “what friend?”

The woman’s gaze drops to the elevator buttons, seeing the number three lit up for them and number four lit up for him just as Steve answers, “Brad Russell.”

The mother and the father exchange a shrouded look between them; almost unconsciously, the woman tugs her son closer to her. “Oh,” she says, and then the elevator door chimes, opening for the small family. 

Now, Steve wishes he’d taken the stairs.

While the other three leave the elevator, Steve slumps into the corner, feeling behind him for the knife he stashed in his pants; if _Brad_ or whoever is hurting Bucky… Steve’s gonna tear him apart, piece by piece. When the elevator opens, his entire body’s a live grenade, just waiting to burst into flames. He runs down the hallway: 400, 410, 420… Finally, 440. He’s ready to stab anything, _anyone_ ; he swipes the card again, and the door unlocks. Steve yanks it open, grabs the knife, and pulls it in front of him—he scans the first few rooms with his knife raised. “Bucky?” he calls out. 

There’s no answer. He keeps going, room to room, ready for _anything_ , but there’s no one here. Not even Brad Russell or whoever. It’s messy in here, especially for such an expensive place in the city—it smells like stale beer and unwashed sheets. “Bucky? Bucky!” he cries out, a hint of hysteria in his voice. He _knows_ that Bucky’s here—Tony wouldn’t lie to him. He promised Steve that his program _worked_ , that it located Bucky’s arm, and now all its finding is a sink full of dirty dishes and an unmade bed, and Bucky’s nowhere to be found, and he’s calling his name like a madman, over and over again, panicking now, throwing open every closet and every bathroom—

—then Steve sees it, tossed beside the couch, half-hidden beneath a pile of dirty laundry: _Bucky’s arm_ , its pearl-white color in contrast to the gray carpet. He shoves the clothes aside, and the prosthetic arm’s alone, sickeningly, horrifyingly _alone_ , and Bucky’s not there.

Steve never, ever, _ever_ thought that someone would take Bucky’s arm away, or that he would take it off himself—God, he remembers Tony saying that it was possible to remove it, but Bucky never _had_. There was never any reason to. “No, fuck no,” Steve mutters, dread seeping in. “No, no, no…”

Tony was right. Something is really fucking wrong here. 

And all Steve knows is that he’s gonna fucking murder Brad Russell. 

He tears through this man’s stuff, searching for a picture, a phone number, anything, until he’s opening the man’s laptop, and the screensaver—the fucking screensaver—is a photo of a dark-haired man and his wife, his arm dangling around her neck. 

Steve knows that man. It takes him a second to recognize him, but then he thinks about the fake name that Tony mentioned: Brad Russell. Brad Russell… That’s Brock fucking Rumlow. Brad Russell, Brock Rumlow… It’s too close for this to be any kind of coincidence. Bucky’s only talked about him a couple times, but Steve knows enough, remembers the conversations they’ve had about this.

_“There was this- this guy, his name was um, Brock Rumlow—” Bucky closes his eyes, his face anguished and contorted in distress. “He, um—he—I went back to his place one time which was—which was stupid.” A brief, ragged sob. “He-he was one of those guys who was into really fucked up stuff, like—like—like hardcore BDSM stuff, I guess—” His face is hidden in Steve’s shoulder, words half-slurred, but Steve can hear the tremor in his voice and a kind of numb sickness settles over him._

_“I-I told him I didn’t do that stuff, but—but he didn’t listen. You know, obviously.” Bucky forces out a laugh that comes out more as a whimper, and Steve runs his hand up and down Bucky’s back gently. “And he-he made me thank him after, he told me I liked it.”_

Steve shudders. Bucky… He’s missing because of _Brock fucking Rumlow?_ Unshakable, overwhelming terror wracks his mind, and he squeezes his eyes shut—fuck, _fuck,_ no—god, he can’t breathe, can’t imagine what Brock’s doing to Bucky, can’t imagine that Brock’s been leaving bruises on Bucky’s skin for fucking _months_ —

Steve picks up the phone and dials Maria.

* * *

Shuri’s heart is pounding so loudly she’s sure the men entering the room can hear it. She thinks, strangely, of the times she played hide and seek with her brother, hiding in closets and cabinets and under the stairs. Then, she would stifle her giggles with her hand and try to quiet her breathing as much as possible so that her brother wouldn’t find her; the price of getting caught was a round of tickling.

Now, she stifles her whimpers behind her hand as a man growls, “He’s not waking up,” and prays that the others are so distracted by the broken man on the bed that they will not find her; the price of getting caught is… She doesn’t want to think about. But she didn’t have any other _option_ —if they’d seen her, they could’ve tracked her down easily, and she couldn’t go to the police about it for fear of being deported. She could’ve ended up like the naked man on the bed, or _worse_. And now, listening to the four men speak, she’s more scared than ever. 

There’s a sharp _smack,_ like flesh hitting flesh, and then: “C’mon, James, up and at ‘em!” It’s clear to Shuri that the man on the bed— _James_ , she thinks—isn’t waking up. 

A dangerous, German drawl: “Get him up, Rumlow. I’ve got two paying customers right here.”

“Fine, fine, I’ve got it.” Another slap, harsher and louder—Shuri flinches—followed by another, each one punctuated with “James!” until finally there’s a ragged, pained gasp. “Morning, sunshine. Ready to behave? No screaming like you did last time. We don’t need the whole place to know what a slut you are.”

A muffled sound, followed by these horrible, whimpery breaths that shake Shuri to her core. She has to _do_ something, has to try to help this man, this James, so she takes out her phone with shaking hands. She’s trying not to make any noise, so she moves slowly, so slowly it’s like every molecule in her body is stuck in molasses. She silences it first— _why didn’t she think of that sooner_ —then texts Peter, frantic and scared, and hopes he’ll see it in time: _get me out of here._ Then she shifts to the camera app and presses _record._ As soon as she gets out of here, she can submit something like this anonymously, to the police. Or maybe Peter can do it for her. But no matter what, these people will burn for what they’ve done to this man. 

“I’m gonna let you talk now,” says the first one, his voice a raspy, sultry tone, “ ‘cause we got someone who wants you to put the pretty mouth of yours to good use, hm?”

There’s some moving, some shuffling, the release and readjustment of some handcuffs, then finally she hears the naked man’s voice for the first time. “B-Brock,” he gasps, and it’s clear that it’s him, partially because of the level of pain he’s obviously in, and partially because his voice is weak and shaking and _desperate,_ “p-p-please, no more, I c-can’t” —some coughing— “do this, p-please, _please,_ please…” A dry, haggard sob. “I’m d- _done._ ”

“Done?” the man, probably Brock, sneers. “You’re not done till I say you’re done. Who’s up first?” 

When the other man starts talking, James goes almost animalistic, fraught with fear, louder now, “N-no! You try to—no—no, no, I’ll fu-fucking b- _bite_ it off, I-I’ll do it—” And then Brock or someone does _something_ , because the naked man’s voice cuts off in a strangled yelp, like someone just grabbed him by the throat or stuck a knife against his spine.

“You bite down, and I’ll take off your other fucking arm, James,” snarls Brock. “You’ll suck off whoever I tell you.” Then the naked man is crying, begging, pleading, and there’s another _slap_ , and his words melt into sobs. “Stop crying, you fucking pussy, don’t act like you’ve never done this before.”

Then there’s a new voice, one lower than the rest: “Don’t worry about it. I like ‘em better when they cry.”

The next few minutes are so brutal that Shuri shoves her hands over her ears, but she can still hear it: the groaning, the whimpering, the creaking, the pleading, the crying, the grunting, the _finally getting what you deserve, what you want, slut, take it, take it—_

—and finally Peter texts her back while she’s listening to the worst nightmare of her life. 

Peter: _did they find you?_

Shuri: _no_

Shuri: _but they are hurting him, hurry, it’s really really bad_

Peter: _shit shit ok_

Peter: _where are you?_

Shuri: _in the closet, there’s nothing here, they will not look_

Peter: _how many of them?_

Shuri: _four i think, they’re raping him peter, you have to do something NOW_

Peter: _i’m trying, i’m finding your brother, he’s gonna help_

Shuri: _ok ok, but peter it’s really bad_

Shuri: _please hurry_

—and she waits and she waits, clutching her phone like it’s her last supply of water on a desert island, until finally there’s a banging on the door: “Housekeeping!” Shuri perks up. That’s Peter’s voice. “Housekeeping, housekeeping!”

All of the terrible noises seem to subside, save James’ distressed, whimpery breaths, and she hears the German hiss, “What the _fuck_ , Rumlow! I thought you put the sign up!”

“I did!” protests the other man. “Just...keep him quiet. I’ll deal with this.” There’s a miserable sound from James before a movement on the bed and then his breathing is smothered beneath something, getting faster as his panic rises. Then, footsteps to the door. “We don’t need housekeeping! Come back later!” 

Peter hesitates. “We’ve gotten reports of, um, plumbing problems on this floor, if we could just have a few minutes to check it out—”

“No, we’re fine, we don’t need anything!” snaps Brock. “Come back later!”

“Sir, please, if you would just—”

“Come back later means come back fucking later!” barks Brock, and Peter skitters away, pulling the cart behind him.

That spark of hope fizzles and dies between Shuri’s chest, and she clamps her hand over her mouth, silent tears pouring down her cheeks. She’s only fifteen years old—how is she supposed to handle something is dark and massive as this? She’s holding her breath now so that her hiccups die in her chest, holding herself so tightly that she can’t breathe, only cry, only cry…

The naked man, James, is crying, too, making these haggard sobbing noises that make the German man grumble in complaint. “Brock,” snaps the German. “I’m paying good money for this slut and all he does is fucking cry. That might be good for guys like Rollins here” —the low-voiced man gives a dry chuckle— “but I don’t want to listen to that shit all day. Make him shut up.”

And the agonized, terrified sound that comes from the naked man makes Shuri shudder in the darkness of the closet. “Wanna see your pretty boy again, _Bucky?_ Then keep your crying to yourself and leave the rest of us in peace. Now, Batroc, you’re up.”

Shuri doesn’t listen to what the man named Batroc does to Bucky, but it’s impossible not to hear. It’s all screams and punches and tears until the naked man stops making noises at all and the other man stops grunting. She sits there in the closet, the small space her own prison, her joints aching from being in one place, her face swollen with tears, praying, vaguely, that James passes out so he doesn’t have to feel the world of hurt Wilson is giving him. Somewhere along the way, her phone dies, and she’s left in complete radio silence. No Peter, no T’challa… No one to tell her that everything’s gonna be okay. Completely still, she sits. She sits and tries not to hear the horrors happening just beyond the closet door.

And finally, after what feels like hours, the fire alarm goes off, and all hell breaks loose—

—pants zipping, belts buckling, men swearing, pained moaning, all beneath the forever screeching of the fire alarm, people running, kids crying, doors slamming—

—banging on the door, once more, and a voice yelling, “Fire! Fire! Fire! Everyone out!” And the other two have already gone, but Brock and the German man are arguing, screaming:

— _we can’t take him, we have to leave—_

_—they’ll find him, he’s gonna tell the police—_

_—this pussy won’t say a word, too fucking scared—_

_—fine, fine, have to go—_

_—no one will check, no one will know—_

Until finally there’s more doors slamming, whining on their hinges, an impossible amount of people coming and going and screaming, and then the door’s opening, and Shuri’s little closet is flooding with light. She jerks away, panic racing through her, her heels slipping on wood, _they’ve found her, they’ve found her—_

“Shuri, Shuri, it’s just me, just me…” She knows that _voice_ , and it doesn’t belong to Brock or Stern or the German man; she knows that _language_ , and it’s not English or German, it’s Xhosa, and it’s like liquid comfort in her ears; she knows that _man_ , with dark skin and cheekbones like hers. It’s T’challa, and he’s taking her into his arms and hugging her tightly. She’s still crying, holding her sobs in her chest, but he doesn’t mind, just embracing her. “You’re okay, you’re okay…” He takes her face in his hands, touching their foreheads together. “Did they hurt you, little sister?” he asks in their native tongue. “Tell me, tell me.”

She sniffs, and he wipes some of her tears away with his thumbs. “No, no, I’m fine, they never found me.”

“Did they… Did they touch you?” 

His voice is bordering on full-on explosion, but she shakes her head. “No. But the white man…”

He nods. “I know. I saw him.” His face looks strange, like a man on a mission. “We will get him out of this place.”

* * *

The worst part about being arrested isn’t being handcuffed or the ride to the station, or even being patted down for weapons after they discover his knife. It’s that after, as he’s sitting handcuffed to a table, that it’s not Maria here to understand him as he’s choking his way through the worst panic attack of his life, but Okoye Adebayo, his defense attorney. He’s known her for a while, ever since Clint begged him to get an attorney (although he’s sure Clint didn’t expect Steve to get tangled up in something like _this_ ) and he picked the first one he suggested. Maria called Okoye immediately after Steve called her and told her what had happened, and not three minutes later, as Steve was trying to leave, did the security guards of the apartment building call the police and detain him over some “suspicious reports.”

The one thing Steve hates the most, the one thing he can think about right now, is how they take Bucky’s prosthetic arm as evidence—like it’s a piece of paper instead of the hand that Steve held when they slept on the rooftop together, the hand that touches Steve with such tenderness he usually forgets it’s not made of skin and bone. 

He tries to explain this to Okoye, but she’s not Maria and she just doesn’t _understand_ , and he’s trying to talk through these angry, panicky gasps that take all his breath away, through the steel-knife of panic stabbing between his ribs. She’s a daunting woman, with these mock-spear gold earrings dangling in her ears, a black jumpsuit, and a white blazer embroidered with gold. She’s staring at him with that piercing gaze, like she knows everything he’s thinking. And then, instead of telling him to calm down or that he’s overreacting, she crouches by him and whispers, “Steve, no matter what happens here today, I promise you I will do everything in my power to find out what happened to your Bucky.”

Those words calm him down a little bit, and he takes this dreadful, shuddering breath to try to compose himself. “Um, do you—do you believe me?”

She nods, like its the simplest thing in the world. “I trust Maria,” she declares, “and Maria trusts you.” She shrugs. “And besides that, I went to your art gallery back in...January? I saw you with him. You would never do anything to harm your Bucky.”

Somehow, the words _harm_ and _Bucky_ in the same sentence drive a painful stake through his chest, and he drops his head to the table, vision blurring with tears. 

He thinks about how long Bucky’s been hurting. He doesn’t know exactly how or when it started—Bucky would never say—but he knows it’s been a long time, at least since the hearing… So, since March, at least. And it’s mid-July now, which means… He pitches forward in his chair, hands over his face; he doesn’t know why, but he’s shaking, half from the darkening fury racing through him and half from the absence of Bucky at his side. He can’t _touch_ him, which is the worst part. He can’t even tell him that everything’s gonna be okay. He can just sit here and picture all the ways he’s gonna kill Brock Rumlow when he finds him. 

“Steve.” Okoye leans forward so that he’ll meet her eyes. “Listen to me. You’re not going to jail for this.” Steve scoffs, raising his handcuffed hands, and Okoye gives him a knowing look. “You didn’t take anything, nothing is broken, and you’re not the one who created the false card.” She keeps going, talking about crimes and sentences and bail, all things Steve doesn’t have the headspace to think about right now.

He doesn’t care if Rumlow will press charges against him for breaking into his house, or if he’ll be fined for using a false key card to enter the building. All he cares about is Bucky, the one person he’ll do anything for, the one person that can take his breath away with just one smile. He thinks about how fucking _terrified_ Bucky must be, and his jaw clenches, and his handcuffs clink against the table—

“Are you paying attention?” Okoye’s looking at him curiously, slightly annoyed, like she came all the way to the police station for nothing.

He blinks and tries to dissipate the lingering anger in his chest so that he can talk without grinding his teeth. “Yeah—yeah, of course.”

She stares, long and hard, at him. “Okay, well, as I was saying, it was not ideal that you took a knife to the apartment, but we can still work this out. Stark will be here soon, so we can fix some of this...mess.”

That’s when the officer bursts in, someone with heavy steps and that fucking white moustache— _Ross._ Okoye stiffens as he walks in, sitting up a little straighter. “Ross,” she says coldly. 

“Adebayo,” he says, even more chilling.

“I didn’t know you’d be the one questioning my client today,” she states. “Are you sure you’re the right one for the job, Officer?”

Ross’ entire face tightens. “I know more,” he spits, “about burglary cases than anyone in this station. Of course I’m the right man for the job.”

“Not burglary cases,” remarks Okoye. “Sexual assault cases. According to—”

“That’s not what this is—”

“Don’t interrupt me,” she asserts, her tongue like a whip; Ross reels, like he’s not used to being corrected. “As I was saying, according to my client, the apartment he was in belonged to a Brock Rumlow, in which Bucky Barnes’ armwas found. Bucky Barnes, who has now been missing for three days, claims that Brock Rumlow sexually assaulted him multiple times.”

Ross scowls. “So there’s history between Barnes and Rumlow—so what? This has nothing to do with Rogers! He broke into a man’s home!”

“I’m not arguing,” replies Okoye, “whether my client did or did not break into Rumlow’s apartment. I’m arguing that you have too much bias in a case involving a sexual assault victim and his abuser.”

Incredulous, Ross says, “Barnes is a hooker, Adebayo; Rumlow’s probably just a john who got a little too rough with him. He’s hardly been _assaulted_. ” 

Okoye snaps right back, “Is that what you told Francesca? And Rita? And Wanda?”

Red blossoms over Ross’s face. His disbelieving stare moves from Okoye, to Steve, to the door, and back to Okoye again. Steve realizes, like a punch to his chest, that Okoye _knows_ , somehow, what Ross did. “Francesca Hernandez dropped those charges,” sputters Officer Ross. “And so did the other one.”

“Dropped, but not forgotten,” warns Okoye, and her spear earrings glint in the light. “Now, get me someone who doesn’t have personal experience in sexual assault, or you’ll find your superior with a long list as to why you should be suspended for explicit bias.”

Then she shoes him away, like he’s a disobedient kindergartener instead of a well-built cop, and he opens his mouth to say something before thinking better of it and turning on his heel and storming out of the room.

Okoye relaxes a little, ice melting in the sun, and sighs. Before Steve can ask how she knew, she sighs and starts talking again. “Ross assaulted a girl while she was in questioning a couple years ago. Francesca Hernandez. She was...fourteen, I think. And he thought since she was going to juvy, so he’d never have to worry about seeing her again—she was going for some assault charges—but then the charges were dropped, and I heard about her case, so I picked it up because she couldn’t afford it.” She pinches her mouth like she’s just tasted something sour. “And then someone paid her off, offered her enough money to get her sick mother treatment for the rest of her life, so she dropped her charges, let Ross go.” 

“But how’d you know about Wanda?” Steve asks. “She just… She told me about it, but I didn’t think anyone else…”

“She came forward after Francesca and Rita did, but back then she didn’t have the time or money to testify.” And Steve knows, from what Bucky told him about his years with Wanda, that she’s right. They didn’t have much. Wanda shared an apartment with Scott Lang and a couple other people, and they barely made rent every month. 

The door swings open, and Steve automatically sits up, expecting Ross, but instead it’s Carol Danvers, all brave steps and knowing stares. “Steve,” she says simply, like the last time they saw each other in this kind of setting wasn’t with Bucky sobbing into his side and Carol waiting patiently for Bucky to recount the worst days of his life. They’ve met each other multiple times after that, double dates with laser tag and minigolf and new restaurants, and it’s strange seeing Carol the detective in action again after becoming such fast friends with her and Maria. “Okoye, good to see you again.”

Okoye nods, smiling a little. “And you, Carol.”

As soon as Carol gets settled, unlocks his handcuffs, and asks him what happened, everything spills from Steve, a broken dam, everything from the very beginning up until this very moment: about Bucky, about Brock, about Ross, about Wanda, even, until he’s close to tears, grinding his teeth to keep from collapsing on the interrogation table. And finally, once everything’s out in the open, Carol frowns, sitting back in her chair. “That _asshole_ ,” she growls, and at this point Steve doesn’t know if she’s talking about Rumlow or Ross. “And you’ve tried everywhere, you said? No sign of him?”

“Of Bucky?” Carol nods. “No, nowhere, _nothing_. I just found his fucking arm, and I—” His voice breaks. “He-he would never take it off himself, Carol, _never_ , I—I don’t get it, someone— _fuck,_ someone did this to him—he, he’s not—” He runs his hands over his head, skimming over his blonde hair. 

Then there’s a hand on his back, rubbing gently, and Steve lets out a small sigh, grateful. “We haven’t found Rumlow yet,” Carol states, “but we’re working on it. Right now, I’ve got a team hacking into his computer, finding as much as we can related to Bucky. My partner’s over at his ex-wife’s place now, seeing if she knows anything.” There’s this fiery determination blazing in her eyes. “Trust me, Steve. We’ll find him.”

“People keep saying that,” he says. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

Carol grimaces. “I’ll doing everything I can, and I’ll keep you updated. For now…” She glances back at the door. “There’s no reason for us to keep you here. Rumlow’s not here to press charges, you didn’t hurt anyone… I’ll keep you posted if anything new shows up, okay? We’re working as hard as we can.” 

Steve nods, biting his lip.

“In the meantime” —she motions to Okoye, _come on_ — “I’m gonna have a talk with Ross.”

After they let him go, around midnight, he takes a cab home in a daze, not the tired daze that would let him collapse into his bed, but the kind of daze that keeps him up all night, googling Brock Rumlow and finding every corner of the Internet that mentions his name: every Facebook post, every photo… 

He finds photos of Brock and his ex-wife Sharon, articles about the cop and his domestic violence case, and Twitter rants. None of them give him any clue as to what happened to Bucky.

Until finally, Steve gets a call.

It’s Carol. “I’m so sorry for calling so late,” is the first thing she says, followed by, “but you have to see this.”

Steve checks the time: it’s two thirty in the morning. “See what?” he asks, blinking back the ache of exhaustion from behind his eyes. 

“My partner, Detective Fury, has been trying to get Rumlow’s wife to talk—she was scared of him coming back, but long story, she just gave us the password to his computer twenty minutes ago. And Steve…” There’s this falter in her voice, like she’s just witnessed a murder. “What’s Bucky’s phone number?”

Steve swallows, hard. “Three-three-two, five hundred, one-nine-two-nine.” He memorized it so long ago that reciting it from memory is like singing the lyrics to a Beatles song.

Carol breathes in sharply. “Yeah, that’s… That’s what I thought. That’s the number I had in my phone, but… But I wanted to be sure.”

_Sure of what?_ Steve clutches the phone with both hands. “I don’t understand—did something happen to Bucky?”

She hesitates.

“Carol, _please_.”

Some shuffling on the other end of the line. “I don’t think I can tell you over the phone. It’s too… Look, don’t drive, just get a cab, take it to the police station. I’ll meet you out front.”

So Steve does. He knows why Carol didn’t want him to drive—his mind is crashing and burning, ashes falling across the pleather seats of the cab, and now he’s outside of the station, Carol’s beckoning him inside, and before he knows it, he’s sitting in front of Brock Rumlow’s closed laptop, Nick and Carol watching him intently.

Carol speaks first, cracking the knuckles of her fingers in an almost anxious fashion. “Bucky’s been...communicating with Rumlow,” she begins, and Steve’s mind goes ominously blank, a plaguelike fog emptying his thoughts. “His computer was hooked up to his iCloud, so we can see all of his text messages, and Steve… We’ve got messages between them all the way from February.” Steve moves to open the laptop, but Nick stops him. “There’s some...pretty explicit stuff in there, Steve. Most of it’s just messages, but there’re pictures, too. None of it was consensual—it seemed like a deal, like blackmail, but we’re not sure what Rumlow was using to force Bucky into this position, either… It’s really bad, Steve. And near the end… They talk about Rumlow taking him for a few days, he didn’t say how long… It’s not good.”

And that’s when Nick lifts his hand from the computer, and Steve opens it. The messages are already pulled up, and the first one is dated to February 3rd: _i’ll do it_ , from Bucky. Then a response: _good. my place, thurs. five pm._ Back and forth, back and forth, they talk about times, dates, Brock making these explicitly dominant comments about Bucky, things so intimate and so violently physical that Steve feels sick. It looks like they met every week, during the time period that Bucky claimed he was going to his writing class. Sometimes Rumlow would send him a picture afterward, nothing that could identify the person in the picture as Bucky, but something that probably made Bucky grow so uncomfortable and fearful… Then there’s one, sent by Brock: _hey_. _meeting at ur place next week._

Steve’s thoughts grind against each other, sharpening and slicing and stabbing until he reads Bucky’s next message: _no._

The Brock: _u don’t get to fucking say no to me. your place. five pm. get pretty boy out of the house._

And Brock again: _i can’t wait._

Steve shoves his fist between his teeth as if to keep himself from screaming, but his mind’s already screaming, screeching, this horrible, high-pitched noise that he can’t escape, and everything’s starting to blur together. He remembers that day—Bucky was nervous then, asking him if he could have an evening to himself, to skip class, to just be by himself for a while. And of course, Steve said yes, like the idiot he was, because he didn’t realize that Brock was behind the whole charade.

Steve’s next thought stabs him like a twisted, rusting blade, burning the whole way: _Brock Rumlow raped Bucky at home._ At _Bucky’s_ home. The home that they shared and treasured and spent all their happy moments in… The home that Bucky thought was _safe_. No wonder Bucky couldn’t sleep in their bed. No wonder he locked all the doors at night. 

Steve thinks, suddenly, about how many ways he could watch Brock Rumlow bleed out.

“Steve,” Carol says softly, “I know this is a lot, but there’s more.”

“ _More?_ ” Steve chokes out. “How could there possibly, how…”

Carol frowns. “Brock was also talking to a man named Johann Schmidt. Do you know who he is?” Steve shakes his head. “He’s a pretty notorious pimp in this side of New York, in charge of a lot of male prostitutes… He offered to buy Bucky multiple times, but Brock said no. Said he’d” —Carol winces, and her voice drops— “lend him out for a few days—that’s where Bucky and Brock are now, I think.”

It’s like Steve has forgotten how to speak. “Oh,” he gasps, and that all-consuming panic is back, snaking between his ribs. All of her words are collapsing and burning in his chest: blackmail, pimp, lend… It’s too much and he’s forgotten how to think and also how to breathe and someone’s telling him to _calm down, just breathe,_ but he fucking _can’t_ because Bucky’s _out there,_ lent to some pimp for a few bucks, and it’s all barrelling through his brain, thickening and widening until this fear is all that he has inside of him, and someone’s saying _breathe, you’re okay, we’re gonna find him, don’t worry,_ until finally the panic eases inside of him, draining out of him into this dark pit in his stomach. “What—what do we _do?”_

“You,” says Fury, “need to go home. If you think of anything that could help us find Barnes, then give Carol or me a call. Otherwise…” He sighs, and Carol just looks distraught. “Just...go home. We’ll give you updates.”

Steve tries to argue with them, but eventually they usher him out, and he’s left with this fucking digital file of Bucky and Brock’s conversations on his phone that he’s supposed to fucking _analyze_ to look for any clues. He chokes down this dark panic in his throat and tries not to think about what could be happening to Bucky right now.

* * *

Brock and Johann finally get back to their motel room late, around three, when the chaos from the fire alarm finally dies down, and when they get back… He’s gone. Not gone, escaped, gone, but _gone_ as in three sets of handcuffs are now clipped in half, still hanging from each end of the bed.

Johann snarls in rage upon seeing the empty bed, throwing a chair across the room; it hits the wall with a _bang_ so loud that some of the people in the hallway outside startle and walk a little faster. “He fucking _escaped!_ ” he roars, with such acidic fury that Brock tenses. “You let him out, you did this, you _did this!”_ He throws Brock against the wall, and Brock shoves back, anger pounding in his chest. 

“No, I didn’t do this, you think I wanted him gone—”

“You’re not getting a penny for this fucking fourth day, Rumlow! God, how could you let this _happen_!”

“He’s my slut and he listens to me! He’ll fucking obey, he will—you saw him, he practically pisses himself when he disobeys!”

Johann’s barely intelligible now, grumbling about money and clients and James fucking Barnes, and hatred for him races up his spine. His face has twisted into something villainous, straight out of an action movie, the kind of anger that crosses over into bloodthirsty rage. “Get him back, or my clients are gonna _lose it_. I run a business here, Rumlow, and you’re really _fucking it up!_ Get that little one-armed slut back on this bed where he belongs, or you won’t know what hit you, I swear—”

Brock snaps, “I’ll get him back, I swear, you’ll get your fourth day, you’ll get it!”

And with a furious “fine” and another violent shove, Johann Schmidt is gone.

* * *

Carol takes the cab home in silence; the horrible, hot silence that sizzles and pops in her ears. She thinks about Bucky and Steve and goddamn _Brock Rumlow_ , and how just a few weeks ago, she thought their story would have a happy ending. She knew they had a really good chance at winning the Alexander Pierce case; she thought they’d go home, go to therapy, fall in love all over again, get married, maybe have a couple kids… Sometimes, Steve and Bucky remind her so much of herself and Maria, the kind of love that is so powerful it lingers in her chest and in her bones.

But with what she discovered tonight… She’s a detective who specializes in sex crimes. She knows the stats—the likelihood of finding Bucky alive and well, or the likelihood of finding him at _all_ , is so horrifically _low_ now. He’s been kidnapped by a former abuser, an ex-con charged with domestic abuse and sexual assault, one who blackmailed him into sex for _months,_ and now he’s being targeted by a pimp, a procurer who she knows _never_ lets anyone go once he wants them, and now he’s being “lent” to Schmidt and his clients… It’s worse now, because she _knows_ him. She’s worked on dozens and dozens of cases, but she’s never known the victim so well, never been over to have a goddamn _meal_ with the victim, never sent the victim goddamn pictures of her cat and her family and the look on Monica’s face when she opened a brand-new set of toy rocketships on Christmas. 

At three-thirty, when Carol finally pays the cab driver and staggers into her house, dragging her feet with exhaustion and grief, she finds herself crying as soon as she locks the door behind her. She scrubs a hand over her face—she’s so _tired_ —but all she can think about is the heartbroken look on Steve’s face. She’s crying so hard now that she has to brace herself against the counter; god, all she wants to do is fall into Maria’s arms, and bury her face in her shoulder in breathe in that sweet smell of home, home, _home._ She wipes her sleeve across her face once the tears start, trying to stop it before it gets to before, but they just keep coming, spilling out of her in these uncontrollable, hiccupy sobs.

“Carol?” Carol jumps, her heart leaping out of her chest, and turns away from her, trying to scrub away her tears with the corner of her blazer before— “Carol, baby, look at me.”

Carol laughs, this sad, shaky sound that doesn’t disguise the anguish in her voice. “I, um—I thought you, um, were asleep, babe.”

Maria gives her that knowing smile, that one that crinkles at the corners of her eyes. “I couldn’t, not if you were still out there. Now, c’mon, I’ll make you something, what do you feel like? Coffee? Tea?”

Carol shakes her head, trying to hold back her next round of tears. “Ah, um, no, babe, it’s okay, I—I don’t wanna keep you up.”

Maria’s already turning on the kitchen lights and fiddling through the kitchen. “I told you, I couldn’t sleep. I made myself a big cup of coffee and finished my book—baby?”

Carol’s slid to the floor now—she didn’t mean to, but she can’t help it, she just collapses, crying so hard she feels like she’s vomiting, and then there’s Maria kneeling beside her, whispering, “Oh, baby…” And Carol’s beautiful, wonderful wife takes her into her arms and just _holds_ her, gently, kindly, kissing her forehead as she cries, sobbing into the crook of her neck. And her voice is like a sigh, like a whisper of wind carrying a baby bird, like the quiet movement of a rocking chair… “We’re okay, baby, we’re okay, shh…” They’ve had days like this, when Carol comes back from work with blood splattering her hands and this dazed, trauma-heavy look in her eyes, and Maria has to remind her about how _beautiful_ life is, but tonight is different. 

Tonight, after she has to help her unbutton her blue dress shirt because her hands won’t stop shaking, picks out a too-big Air Force T-shirt that Carol loves, and helps her into it, when Maria finally tugs her into bed, Carol won’t lie down, murmuring something about a man named Rumlow, Maria knows what she needs. “Wanna go check on Monica, baby?”

Carol nods vaguely, still a little shell-shocked. So they go, hand in hand, tiptoeing down the hallway, bare legs cold in the air conditioning, and slip into their little girl’s room to watch her sleep. Monica’s only four, now, so Maria’s rule of _it’s not creepy till she can read_ still applies. They sit against the wall opposite Monica’s bed, listening to her soft, little snores, and somewhere along the way, Carol starts to cry again, and Maria wipes away her tears with her warm, beautiful hands. They sit there in silence, in the beautiful silence that says, _I’ve got you_ , and _we’re gonna be okay_ , and _I love you_ , and Carol leans into Maria and kisses her softly, sweetly, the kind of kiss that asks for nothing in return, and it’s wet and salty with tears, but Maria doesn’t care, she just kisses her back, a kiss of love and home and _I love you no matter what_ …

And eventually, they go back to bed, and Maria pulls her beneath the covers, tangling their legs together. She doesn’t ask about what happened; she waits, lets Carol start as Maria finger-combs her hair, her hands a gentle rhythm of pulling and loosening and tugging, so pleasant and peaceful that the tension in Carol’s body untangles, too. Carol doesn’t say anything about Bucky; she doesn’t think she has the courage to, not yet, so instead she whispers, “How can we raise her in a world like this?”

Maria doesn’t stop combing, even as Carol starts talking, just keeps going. “A world like what?”

“Like _this_ , with all these” —Carol gestures vaguely into the air— “horrible people, people who just take good people and hurt them for no goddamn reason…”

Maria starts braiding her hair now, twisting it into one French braid, and without any hesitation, she says, “A world with people like Nick, people who love and do the right thing just because it’s right, people like _you_ , I’d raise a hundred kids in a world like that.” She leans forward, kisses Carol’s shoulder. “Baby, I’d raise a hundred kids with _you._ ”

That makes Carol smile, and when Maria finally finishes the braid, Carol gets up, crawls onto the other side of the bed, the side that smells like _Maria_ , and curls up so that they’re as close as possible, Carol’s front against Maria’s back, and she buries her face in Maria’s shoulder, and thinks, _I love you_ just as Maria whispers, “I love you, Carol.”

And Carol curls her arm around Maria’s waist; Maria interlaces their fingers and holds their intertwined hands against her chest, lets out a soft sigh. “I love you,” Carol murmurs back. “I love you, I love you…” _And I need you_ is the one thing she can’t bear to say out loud. Because if she says it, like Steve Rogers said, _I need him, please, Carol, you have to find him_ , then maybe it’s possible that something as horrible as what happened to Bucky Barnes could happen to her Maria, too.

Carol holds Maria tighter, whispers, “I love you,” again, and breathes in the scent of _now_ , of _love_ , of _Maria_. For now, she’s _home._

* * *

It’s four in the morning now, still dark enough that T’challa worries about the shadows shifting in the dark, whether _this_ shadow or _that_ shadow was the one who hurt this man named James until he looked like a bloodied corpse. After Shuri’s friend Peter hit the fire alarm, they raced to the room Shuri was in, waited until the four men left, and burst inside. T’challa still can’t forget the moment when he found his little sister, his _baby sister_ , huddled in the bottom of the closet, hands over her ears, and how she flinched away from him when he tried to get her out. Then, they cut those handcuffs with wire cutters, dressed him in T’challa’s spare security guard uniform, and pulled him out on one of those long, buffet carts covered with a massive tablecloth. If anyone saw them moving what looked like a dead body, or if the men who raped him saw their victim leaving the scene, T’challa can’t imagine the consequences.

They pulled him into the back of their car and carried him into their place on Brooklyn and Pacific, getting a few weird looks as they brought him in, but stranger things have happened there—people coming in beaten and bruised was not uncommon.

T’challa and Shuri share their small apartment with their mother, Ramonda; T’challa’s girlfriend, Nakia; Xoliswa, Nakia’s sister; and Unathi, Xoliswa’s infant son. It’s a small apartment, and there’s not much elbow room, but they’re making do, laying out a couple clean sheets for the injured man and caring for him there. They’ve taped up a sheet to dangle around James’ corner of the room, just to provide him with some privacy.

Now, Nakia, who worked as a doctor back in their home country, tends to James, as he fidgets and moans in his pain-filled sleep. “He needs a hospital,” she says quietly to T’challa. Instead of Xhosa, she speaks in Hausa, another language of their people, one that Shuri doesn’t know, so they can speak in private. “I can’t give him all of the care he needs, not here, not for _rape_. I didn’t care for victims like this back home.”

T’challa sighs, kneeling on the ground by the man. “And he has not awakened yet?”

Nakia shakes her head. “No. And I wouldn’t dare wake him. His body needs time to _heal,_ T’challa.” She finishes applying a salve of some kind to some of the bruises and turns to him. “You can’t keep bringing me broken white men for me to fix, my love. I can’t save everyone, you know.”

And it’s true that he’s done this before, found a man in need of such dire medical attention but could not afford to go to a hospital. That’s how Shuri met Peter, in fact, after T’challa found his youngest janitor beaten in an alley after someone mugged him and took his wallet. Peter could barely afford his next meal, let alone a trip to the hospital, so T’challa took him to Nakia and asked her to help. “I know,” says T’challa, “but I couldn’t just leave him there.”

“You don’t even know him,” Nakia reminds him, injecting some pain medication to the IV she set up for the man.

T’challa looked down at the man on the ground, the white man currently unconscious in the corner of their home. “It didn’t matter. I couldn’t let anyone suffer like that, Nakia, _no one_ deserves this.”

“I know.” She looks down at the man before finally removing her rubber gloves and ushering T’challa beyond the sheet. As cars whiz by the windows, they collapse into the bed they share, side by side. “Did Shuri—did she see?”

T’challa whispers, “No.” He looks over at the bed only a few feet over from them, where Shuri and Xoliswa sleep. Shuri’s frowning in her sleep, her forehead tight; he knows she usually does this when she’s stressed, but tonight, he knows it’s because of something much more malicious. “She… She recorded the sound. On her phone. She thought it would be...helpful, if the man wanted to press charges against them.”

“My god,” breathes Nakia.

“She was in there with him for about an hour—I didn’t have my phone while I was working, and Peter didn’t know where I was, so Shuri was stuck in that _place_ , all because she wanted to help that poor man.”

He closes his eyes, guilt pouring from him, and Nakia presses a gentle kiss against his cheek. “ _Kauna_ ,” she says, the Hausa word for _my love,_ “it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known what was happening in that room.”

“She is only fifteen years old, Nakia. She shouldn’t have to know, shouldn’t have a _recording_ on her phone of all that she heard.” He gasps a little, thinking about Shuri and those terrible men, and she places a hand on his chest. “She shouldn’t have to…”

“I know, I know…”

“And this man… James? Can you imagine? Being handcuffed to a bed, hurt, _tortured_ like that…”

And James makes a noise, this grim, gasping sound, and Nakia sits up again, leaving his side.

* * *

Nakia has been a doctor since she was nineteen years old and first finished her medical studies in their home country; she’s seen people war-torn, their limbs ripped from their bodies from bombs dropped by people they would never meet. That’s what she did, mostly, was care for those affected by bombs and debris and shrapnel; she’s never cared for a rape victim before. And now, as James wakes up, blinking fearfully into the darkness, she doesn’t know what to do. As a doctor, as a woman, as another human being… He’s covered in a sheen of sweat, twisting and twitching and moaning in pain. “James?” she says, softly so that she won’t wake up the others. 

The man recoils, like hearing his name sends a biting chill through his whole body; his eyes flutter open. Upon seeing a shadow above him, he squeezes them shut again like he’s readying himself for a blow. Nakia watches him, whispers in English, “You’re safe here, you’re safe.”

James opens his eyes again, clenches his fingers around the sheets below him. 

Nakia moves her hand to his forehead check his temperature, but James makes this choked whine, expectant of so much suffering, that she takes it away after only a moment. He feels...warm, a little too warm, which worries her, but now that he’s awake she has to ask him about what happened. He’s moving now, inching away from her, his one visible eye glazed over—although she’s not sure if it’s from terror or from infection—and it’s straining some of the stitches she so carefully put into that gash on his thigh. “Careful,” she says, and he just moves more, making these choked, raspy noises. She puts a hand around his upper arm, trying to still him, and he _freaks_ , cowering, shaking, trying to sit up, but he’s in so much pain that he can’t even do that, so he just jerks away, whimpering, “P-p-please, please, p-p-please—”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she assures him, and she stops touching him. The touching, she thinks, is driving him _insane_ , leaving him terrified. “You’re not there anymore, we took you out.”

The trouble, she thinks, is that it’s impossible for him to know that for sure, especially in this half-conscious, near-feverish, post-traumatic state. He’s lying on a pile of sheets, one end of a handcuff around each ankle, around his wrist, and there’s a person kneeling above him. He doesn’t _know_ that he’s safe, not yet. And she wishes she could ask him about what happened, but she knows it’s impossible, at least right now. 

So after James falls back asleep, into the fitful sleep he was in before, she calls T’challa over to her side; she tells him again, “He needs a doctor, _kauna._ Just look at him. I don’t have what he needs—sedatives, more pain medication, rape kit. And if he needs an operation...” She touches his face, her palm cool against his cheek. “I know you don’t want to do it, but we _have_ to. I don’t have what he needs to survive. I wish I did, but… He’s getting worse.”

T’challa examines him now. It’s easier to gauge how bad he is with all the blood cleaned off of him, with the stitches and the blackening bruises, and he looks like he’s dying, even without the blood—gray, empty, like those men chewed away at his soul, left him hollow. Nakia’s right—they need to take him to a hospital. “We’ll leave in the morning,” he says, and Nakia nods.

They’re going to save this man.

* * *

Steve doesn’t go home if he doesn’t absolutely have to. It feels too empty without Bucky, like it doesn’t deserve to be called a _home_ anymore. By Monday morning, he’s only spent around twenty minutes at his apartment—he can’t stand to be there anymore. Mostly because, with this assurance of foul play in the now two cases surrounding Bucky Barnes, the media swarms Bucky’s disappearance like piranhas to raw meat. As soon as they get a taste of what happened, _James Barnes, accuser of CEO Alexander Pierce, gone missing_ , they crowd Steve everywhere he goes, following him and questioning him and cramming their microphones in his face until finally he snaps. “Get the _fuck_ away from me!” he snarls, snatching a microphone from his face. He doesn’t say anything about Bucky or Rumlow or anyone; he just throws it to the ground and grabs the reporter by the front of his suit. “Ask me again, ask me about him one more _fucking time_ , and I’m gonna take that microphone and shove it up your ass, got it?” The reporter blanches; Steve’s not a small man, has at least five more inches and fifty more pounds on him. The others scatter like flies, a few more cameras clicking before Steve glares and they all vanish. 

He takes a cab to Tony’s place, but this time it’s not to beg. He walks in with fists hardened into bricks, hands Tony his phone, and tells him, “I need you to find this man.” 

It’s a photo of Brock Rumlow, of course, a screenshot of the mugshot taken after he was arrested for domestic abuse. Tony takes the phone, squints, and shrugs. “Sure, I mean, why? He take your lunch money?”

He’s trying to cheer him up, Steve knows, but he’s not in the mood. “No, Tony. He kidnapped Bucky.”

Tony’s happy-go-lucky smile falters a little. “Ah, Steve—you know I’m not one to say this, but, maybe we should leave this to the professionals?”

“You were happy to help me before,” growls Steve. “What changed?”

“What changed…” says Tony, looking more pained than cocky now. “What changed is that before, I thought Bucky was _depressed_ , I didn’t think—never would’ve thought someone taken off his goddamn arm! I thought he was having trouble, maybe was seeing someone else, maybe… I don’t know! But I’m not gonna help you go after a goddamn serial abuser, Steve!”

“Why?”

“Why?” echoes Tony in disbelief. “ _Why?_ Because you could get hurt or _killed_ , and I fucking care about you, that’s why!”

“I don’t think,” snarls Steve, “you, of all people, should be giving me advice about not getting yourself killed.”

Tony goes quiet, just for a moment, something so unlike Tony that it makes Steve think, briefly, if he went too far. “I had some rough years, Steve. So did you, if I remember. Drinking and waking up with a different person in your bed every morning.” He pokes Steve in the chest, hard. “But you got past that.”

“No,” says Steve, and his tone is dark and thick with anguish. “Bucky got me past that. And now Bucky’s _gone_.” He slaps his palm against the wall, curling it into a fist.

“He’s just missing,” says Tony, “not dead. You can’t just put on Superman’s cape and fly in to save him—that’s called fucking interfering with a police investigation! The _police_ exist for a reason, Steve! They’re gonna find him!”

“Stop fucking _saying that!”_ roars Steve, and suddenly he’s backed Tony into the wall. “Stop saying that when you don’t know a _fucking thing!_ ” He’s seeing red now—this is all happening so fucking fast, too fucking _fast_ , and he’s just praying to whatever god he believes in that Bucky’s still okay, that he’s still _alive_ , because at this point he just doesn’t know anymore. “Please, please, Tony, you have to help me, you have to help me find him…”

And Tony stops, because now Steve has backed away, apologizing, rubbing his hands down his legs like he can stop them from turning into fists. Tony inhales deeply, scratches his well-trimmed beard, and finally lets out a long breath. “I don’t have that kind of technology, Steve, not at the level you need…” But at the desolate expression on Steve’s face, Tony relents. “Facial recognition software… It’s difficult, Steve—you’ve gotta have a clear shot from a public camera, not a government camera because I’d rather not have a felony on my record, and even then…” The thing is, Tony already tried this facial-recognition program with Bucky’s face when he first went missing, and it hadn’t worked; not a single camera had picked up Bucky’s face. “I’ll do my best, Steve, but no promises, okay?”

And Tony’s a little hesitant—he doesn’t know how to comfort someone like this, someone too young to be his peer and too old to be his kid, someone who’s had his entire world ripped from beneath his feet in the past four days—so he lifts a hand, pats Steve’s shoulder, once, twice, and then walks to the computer and gets to work. 

* * *

T’challa and Shuri don’t own a car yet—they’re too busy trying to make rent on their minimum-wage salaries—so they ask their upstairs neighbors, Ayo and Akena, instead. The two African women are from their home country, too; as a lesbian couple who took in five orphaned children on the wrong side of a violent war, they were forced to flee. Of every other person they knew from their home country, Ayo, Akena, and their five children were the only ones with legitimate, legal statuses as American citizens, so it was easy for them to get luxuries like cars without much trouble.

When T’challa comes knocking at their door at six in the morning, Ayo wasn’t pleased. “I barely sleep as it is,” she complains in snappish, irritated Xhosa, “with five children and Akena’s snoring.” She runs a hand over her tired face and then her shaved head, sighing. “What do you want, T’challa?”

“I need your car,” he says.

Ayo raises an eyebrow. “You know my rules: only people I trust can drive my car. So me, Akena, and God. Not you, T’challa. Not your woman, not your mother, and certainly not your sister.” T’challa starts to explain, but he’s cut off by an earsplitting cry from behind her, and she lets out an exhausted sigh. “Sorry, one second.” As T’challa waits, impatient, Ayo disappears back into her apartment before reappearing with her four-month old son on her hip, bouncing him gently. “Continue.”

T’challa explains as best he can, but it’s difficult to explain the severity of the situation without showing Ayo the broken state of the man currently unconscious in the corner of his apartment, which he tells her. 

She shrugs, quietly breastfeeding her baby as she speaks. “There is no need. I believe you.” She pulls the baby out from under her shirt before handing him the infant. “Let me talk to Akena, and then we can leave.” The baby blinks curiously at T’challa, babbling incoherently as Ayo wakes her wife, speaking to her in apologetic, hushed tones. 

They leave twenty minutes later, carrying James out with each arm strung around Nakia and T’challa’s shoulders. Ayo’s car is big, large enough to seat three rows of people, so Ayo sits in the driver’s seat, T’challa sits in the passenger’s seat, and Nakia sits in the middle row with James’ legs in her lap so she can watch him. The hospital’s a ten-minute drive away, which is not too long, but having so much movement has already made James restless, his barely conscious protests as unintelligible as the baby’s. The car usually smells like baby wipes and goldfish crackers, but now it smells like bloodstained thighs and bruised knees.James keeps murmuring, whimpering in his sleep, his English so slurred that even T’challa, who has been in America the longest, can barely understand it. “Don’t worry,” says Nakia, with impossible tenderness to the injured white man. “We’re getting you to a hospital. You’ll be safe, James, I—”

James wakes up as though bursting out of a deep sleep, grabbing at the first thing he can reach—Ayo’s seatbelt—and pulls desperately, flailing his limbs wildly, trying to sit up, kicking out at Nakia. His eyes are wide with fear, and he’s talking now, saying, “No, no, n-no—” He tries to get up, and when she grabs his arm to stop him, his foot or knee or elbow _smacks_ into her face, because she yelps and draws back. The whole car is chaos now, because Nakia’s covering her face and bleeding through her hands and T’challa’s climbing into the back to reach her and Ayo’s screaming, “Get him under control, make him stop!” But all it does is set James off, make him agitated, sends his paranoia spiraling through the car; he kicks out again, narrowly missing Nakia, and T’challa grabs him by the calf, just above his bandaged ankle, and all of a sudden he stills, going alarmingly _motionless_ , and he just watches T’challa through the haze of fever, shivering and tracking him with his eyes like he’s a pig waiting to be slaughtered.

But it’s better than having him fighting like a madman, and T’challa holds him down for the rest of the car ride, pinning his legs down, trying not to listen as James begs, ever so quietly, for mercy. 

By the time they teach the hospital, he’s out cold again, and Ayo and T’challa carry him to the front door; as undocumented immigrants, they have protocol for situations like this: only the citizens can take someone into a hospital, get them settled, so Ayo’s the one to do it, slinging James’ arm around her shoulders as she walks through to the emergency room, yelling, “Help! I need help, here!”

And T’challa hurries back to the car just as they barrage her with a series of questions she probably doesn’t know how to answer, except one: “What’s his name?” asks a woman in teal scrubs as a man opens his eyes and flashes a light in them.

“James,” Ayo answers. “That’s all I know.”

* * *

Carol Danvers wakes up that morning feeling like absolute shit, but her Maria is a fucking godsend, so her self-pity doesn’t last long. She coaxes her into a couple cups of coffee and puts out her “power” outfit, the one Carol wears for the important trials or the cases that make her want to punch the aggresor through the fucking sun. Maria also wakes Monica up so she can say goodbye to Carol before she leaves for work, just to put a little motivation in her morning. Monica runs across the room, her little, bare feet slapping against the tile, and throws her arms around Carol’s neck, squealing, “Mommy, you look like Superman!”

To be fair, her daughter’s not wrong. She’s wearing pantsuit so red it’s like she’s leaving a trail of blazing fire in her wake, plus a dress shirt so blue she can almost taste it, with a gold star dangling around her neck. “You’re right,” says Maria, scooping up Monica and giving Carol this knowing smirk. “She _is_ Superman. Go get ‘em, baby.”

Carol kisses Maria and Monica, her two favorite people in the world, and finally gets out the door. 

* * *

By the time she gets to the police station, Nick’s already got this strange smile on his face. “Unless you’ve found Bucky,” she says, “I don’t need you smiling like it’s goddamn Christmas, okay? We got work to do.”

But Nick just shakes his head. “We didn’t find Rumlow,” he explains. “We found Rollins.”

_Rollins_. She feels like she should know that name, but she doesn’t. “Who?”

Nick taps his computer screen, where a cruel face appears. He’s got two light slashes for eyebrows, pinched together to form a hostile scowl. His face is almost too perfect, all symmetrical and sharp edges; if he didn’t look like he was about to kick a puppy, he might be handsome. “Jack Edward Rollins. Lives in Brooklyn. Arrested for trying to argue his way out of a speeding ticket, of all things. We took him in, pulled up his records, and the newbie who confiscated his goddamn phone saw a text from _Brock Rumlow_.”

Carol stares at Nick; grim hope rises inside of her.

“They took him in—we linked one of the phone numbers in Rumlow’s texts to his number. He’s one of the two guys Rumlow was selling Bucky to, Carol. He was with him less than twelve hours ago.”

Something inside Carol is blazing, ripping, pouring through her and coming out of her like a nuclear warhead— “Where is he?” she growls.

“End of the hall.” Fury points, and Carol’s already up and moving. “Right side.”

This fucking bastard’s gonna tell her everything he knows.

* * *

Shuri has to go to work the next morning, and without T’challa or Nakia there, she’s can’t go anywhere near the third floor without hyperventilating, but her boss, Klaue, won’t cut her a break. Even after she explains what happened, stammering through her growing panic, Peter nodding in agreement as she speaks, Klaue snaps at them both to stop wasting his time and get back to work.

All she can say is, this is not the best day she’s ever had. She stops at the bottom of the stairs—this is the fourth time she’s done this, but at least this time, Peter is here beside her, holding her hand gently. “He’s not here anymore. And James… He’s safe, at the hospital, remember?”

Shuri chokes down a sob, letting out a shaky _mm-hm._

“Hey, Shuri, look.” His hand on her back, rubbing slowly. “Remember, um, remember Star Wars? The one before, uh… Oh! The Empire Strikes Back! And Luke, he had to face off with Darth Vader, and then he found out he was his dad, and Vader, like, chopped his hand off? And then he fell off the thingy, like, to his death, but I mean, obviously he didn’t die, because, well—but, I mean, that’s gotta be pretty scary, right? Having your arm chopped off and then falling to your death? Like, shit!”

Dumbfounded, Shuri stares at him.

Peter clears his throat. “But, uh… My point is, this can’t be as scary, right? It’s just the third floor.” He gestures vaguely up the stairs. “So, just look at it, and say, _Screw you, Darth Vader!_ ”

Shuri lifts her head up from her hands as if to say, _Really, Peter?_

Peter looks sheepish. “Yeah, seriously, just do it! It worked for my AP chem test, so it’ll work for this.”

So she stands up, even though her legs are a little wobbly, takes Peter’s hand, and faces the thing that’s making her heart barrel like a rollercoaster. “Screw you, Darth Vader!” she shouts, and a man passing with his girlfriend in tow gives her a strange look.

“Better, right?”

Shuri nods. She takes another step, and another, all the way until she’s at the top again, only steps away from the room where everything happened. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, of course.” Peter smiles widely. “Look, I don’t think you wanna be here any longer than you have to, so how about I start from the left, work my way in, you start from the right, same thing? It’ll cut your time in half.”

She watches him. “You’d do that?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, man. Klaue’s being an ass, making you do this floor. It’s the least I can do.”

Shuri almost collapses in gratitude. “Yes, _please_.”

So they split up. Shuri starts in the room all the way on the right and works her way in, listening to some eighties music that Peter’s obsessed with. She’s gone through most of Michael Jackson’s music now, humming to _Thriller_ as she works so that she can distract herself. Swaying to the music, she can forget all about what happened here and—

—a thick-fingered hand over her mouth, an arm around her waist, a circle of metal against her side, and a warning: _shhhhhh…._ Her body is a knee-jerk reaction, jolting away, screaming _danger, danger, danger_ and she lets out this startled cry, muffled into the palm of his hand, and everything squeezes tighter, a boa constrictor of a man, until he’s hissing, “Don’t make a fucking sound or I’ll shoot.”

She _knows_ that voice. It’s the voice that echoed in her head all last night after what happened—he’s Brock, one of the men who hurt Bucky. And she barely has time to comprehend how absolutely _petrified_ she is—a scream trapped in her throat, fear thrumming in her bones, sweat trickling between her shoulder blades—because when he tells her to move and she _can’t_ , he yanks her inside the empty motel room, kicking the door closed with his foot, pulling her back and forth like a rag doll until finally shoving her into a chair. “Where the hell is he?” he hisses, and every part of Shuri freezes over.


	4. come die with me

“Steve?” Tony’s voice is grainy through the phone, but it’s definitely him.

Steve cuts straight to the point. “Did you find him?”

A moment of hesitation, just enough to make Steve wonder whose side he’s on. “Rumlow? Yeah.”

“Tell me where,” he barks.

Tony hesitates, again, and fury flares into Steve’s chest. “No, Steve. Come back to my place so we can talk about it.”

Steve’s at Sam’s right now, pacing a hole into the floor, walking back and forth as Sam watches him with that helpless frown. Steve stops so suddenly that even Sam is startled. “What the hell do you mean, back to your place? Tell me where that motherfucker is _now_ , Tony.”

Tony sighs, and Steve wants to punch him through the phone. “This is not the kind of thing you can just talk about over the phone, Steve.”

“The hell it is—”

“I’m not sending you on a suicide mission over a phone call,” Tony says firmly. “You may have that little regard for your own life, but I don’t. Get over here, or I’m not telling you a damn thing.” 

So Steve goes. He takes a cab—no one lets him _drive_ anymore; when he demanded Sam’s keys, he just shook his head, said, “Not while you’re like this,” and Steve walked away—and when he arrives at his place, Tony’s not alone this time; his now-wife, Pepper, is there with him. She’s the one who comes to the door to let him in. Tony’s inside when Steve arrives, sitting in his lab before a series of computers, with his head in his hands.

He doesn’t look up when they come in. It isn’t until Pepper says, “Tony, sweetheart, he’s here.”

Steve realizes Tony doesn’t look the same. He looks...older, a little more disheveled, like he stayed up all night working or recently lost a friend. 

Which, Steve supposes, he pretty much had. Tony wasn’t _close_ with Bucky, but he knew him pretty well. Every time Steve would come to Tony’s, hungover and empty after sleeping in a stranger’s arms, he somehow always ended up talking about Bucky. Even before Tony met Bucky, he knew him like a friend through Steve’s stories. And now, Bucky’s not just a story who’s disappeared once more. Bucky is a person, a person who Tony met and talked to and laughed with, someone who Tony made a little more room in his heart for, and that makes this all the more painful.

As she moves over to him, Tony says something, quietly, to his wife. She glances back at Steve and turns her back to him so that he can’t see what she’s saying, only hear gentle tones. After a little bit, she leans down, kisses his head, and then leaves the room.

Steve’s still trying to crush the agitation in his bones, shoving his hands in his pockets. Before he can ask again, Tony sits up and starts talking. He’s speaking with his hands, like he always does, but it’s something more subdued this time, his usual enthusiasm weighed down to the ocean floor. “My systems found a man with Rumlow’s height, weight, and face walking through Crown Heights around...ten minutes ago. He’s going down Prospect Place right now—someone’s phone camera caught him thirty seconds ago.”

“Thanks,” grunts Steve, and he whips around to stride towards the door.

A hand catches the top of the door as he tries to open it, shutting it before he can step through. “Steve,” Tony says, firmly. “I’m letting you do this—”

“You not _letting_ me, I’m _going—”_

“—because I know you’re gonna do everything in your power to help Bucky,” he finishes. “And the police… They can’t always be trusted to save the right people. But just… Just be careful, okay? Don’t do anything I wouldn’t—”

“We’re losing time,” snaps Steve, and some regret at his harshness with Tony reverberates through his ribs, because Tony grimaces a little. “I—I’m sorry.”

Then he pushes Tony aside and goes to find Rumlow. If finding Bucky means he has to punch Rumlow until his face swells like a balloon, he’ll do it. If he has to use up all of his strength, he’ll do it. If he has to stare Death in the face, he’ll do it. 

Because Bucky… Bucky is everything to him.

* * *

Carol’s three seconds away from punching Jack Rollins into the sun. He won’t tell them a _thing_ ; nothing about Bucky or Brock or anything. The good thing is, he refuses to have a lawyer present—“You can never trust those damn bastards,” he said—so she can say whatever the hell she wants. Fury does that sometimes, lies to get confessions out of people, tricks them into thinking he’s on their side, but Carol’s on another level.

She gives Rollins the goddamn truth, hard and fast. “Look, asshole,” she growls. “From your text messages, we’ve already got you for conspiracy for kidnapping and sexual assault, battery—”

“I didn’t take him, he—”

“Fine, _accessory_ to kidnapping,” she continues. “All I’m saying is—”

“And all _I’m_ saying is that James _loved_ it,” interrupts Rollins. He’s giving her that sick grin. “And we all knew it. He’s so good, that’s why Johann wanted him so fucking bad—the arm thing? Fucking _sells._ He’s like a… Like a dog. One of those little ones with a bad leg—you just wanna see how long it takes before that pitiful mutt collapses. That kid’s a gold mine. And it helps that he’s pretty, with those blue eyes, so pretty when he cries—you haven’t seen him at his best, Detective, when he’s facedown on a bed—”

It happens fast: Rollins lunging at Carol’s belt for the keys, Carol grabbing his arm and twisting viciously, slamming him down, the sharp _crack_ his head makes as it collides with the metal table, the red that floods her vision, her forearm against his back, her other hand pulling his arm behind his back until he howls, “Ah, _fuck,_ you _bitch,_ get off, ah, ah, get off me, you _fucking bitch_ —”

“Careful, Rollins,” she says, her voice dripping in sugar. “This _fucking bitch_ could get you a year in prison for resisting arrest. Add that to the conspiracy to kidnap and sexual assault that we got on you—once we find Bucky, those’ll be kidnapping in the first degree and aggravated sexual assault in the first degree. That’s, what, forty-five, forty-six years behind bars? You wanna spend the rest of your life in a tin box, asshole?”

“Fuck you,” growls Rollins. “James is just a whore begging for attention, he deserved what he—”

Carol wrenches his arm further, and he lets out a pained squeal. “Wanna say that again, you sick fuck?”

“No— _ah!_ Fine, fine, lemme go, _fuck_ —”

Carol doesn’t budge, doesn’t ease up at all. “I know what you’ve done,” she says, in that dangerously low tone. “You deserve to rot in hell for what you did to Bucky.”

“You can’t prove I touched that fucking _whore_ —ah, fu- _fuck!_ ”

“Try me,” she says, and then she takes one arm off of Rollins to click the pager on her belt, alerting her partner. Then she yanks him back in his chair so he’s sitting upright, so he can see when Fury, opens the door with a triumphant grin. “You got all that, Fury?”

“Every second,” he answers, waving his phone in the air. Then he clicks the _play_ button on the app, one that takes the audio from this room and transfers it to the police data center. 

As the beginning of their conversation plays from Fury’s phone, Rollins blanches, fidgeting in Carol’s tough hands. “But you said—no audio, just—off the record—”

Ah. The one lie she told him at the start of her interrogation. _This is off the record._ “Oops,” she says, and Fury slaps the phone down on the table. The audio’s spilling words, stuff like _he always cries when I fuck him, that’s what makes it so good,_ and Rollins pales. “In case you didn’t know,” she growls, “that’s a confession, you ass. Which means unless you tell us everything you know, where Brock is, where Bucky is…”

“...you’re gonna be sitting in a jail cell for the rest of your life,” Fury finishes, with a determined look.

Rollins gulps.

Carol smiles.

* * *

Brock’s about to put a bullet through this little girl’s skull. She’s too goddamn scared to say anything, too busy pissing herself to open her mouth and tell him where that fucking slut is. “I don’t think you get it,” he growls. “I’ll blow your fucking head off if you don’t tell me where he is—tell me! Talk, bitch!”

She’s shaking her head and crying now, pathetic tears that stream down her brown cheeks, hiccuping until he finally grabs her by the hair and sticks the gun into the meat of her cheek. “You’re gonna die in the next _five fucking seconds_ unless you tell me where James _went_.”

She’s crying harder now, her tears wetting the tip of his pistol, and stammering out excuses— “I—I d-don’t re—remem-member—”

“You’d _better_ ,” he says darkly. This girl… He pulls her to the side, off of the chair, and she cries out, so he shoves his hand over her mouth—stupid _bitch_ , doesn’t she know to be quiet? “What, you think I only want James?” he snarls, pinning her down to the couch. “I’ll fuck you into the wall, bitch, unless you stop your fucking _whimpering_ and _talk!_ There’s no fucking alarm to save you, there’s no one here to save you, only _me_.”

She’s sniveling more, blubbering like a fucking baby, and he hits her again to shut her up. She makes this little wailing sound, so he presses down harder on her mouth. He can’t afford for anyone else to fuck this up—he wants, _needs_ to get James back, and this little girl isn’t gonna take it away from him. James is _his,_ James should be under _his control_ —

They both startle simultaneously as the door creaks open, and the girl starts to scream through his hand, so he takes the gun and shoves it into her neck instead—that shuts her up fast. He looks up; a boy’s at the door about her age, his face a sheet of shock. 

_Shit._ No one else was supposed to come in here, no one was supposed to— He takes the gun and points it at the boy, hissing, “Get the fuck in here!”

And his hands shoot in the air; his mouth opens, gaping like a goldfish as his shocked eyes move from Brock, to the girl, to the gun, and back. “Shu-Shuri?” he stammers. The girl whimpers below him, trying to twist out of Brock’s grip, and he hammers his knee into her chest to stop her. 

“Close the door,” growls Brock, and the boy just stands in shock without moving, so Brock thrusts the gun at him. “Close the _fucking door and get against the wall!_ ”

The boy scrambles to do as he says, and this triumphant feeling surges through Brock. Now that he’s got both of these kids, he can figure out what happened to James (or Bucky, _whatever_ ). He’s gonna get him, finally.

* * *

Steve takes the stairs two at a time. He’d shown one of the janitors a photo of Rumlow, and he’d pointed up the stairs to the third floor, so that’s where he’s going now. He comes up the main stairwell, and slides past the doors, listening carefully for any sign of Bucky or Brock. When he reaches the sixth or seventh room, he hears scuffling, whimpering, a low, masculine voice, and he stops in his tracks. There’s a housekeeping cart outside of the room, but he doesn’t hear any vacuum going, doesn’t hear the movement of a housekeeper. He can sense it, seething in his bones and leaving cold ashes in the back of his mouth. Something is _wrong_. All he can think about is Bucky, this staggering presence in his chest that never fades, the love that’s zinging through his chest right now and keeps him moving, the one thought that the person he loves most in the world is suffering in the most horrific way, and if there’s even a chance...

_Fuck it_ , he thinks, and then he grabs the doorknob; he opens it slowly, scrupulously, without making any noise, nudging the door forward and creeping inside. 

There’s a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man standing before the couch with his back to Steve, standing above a skinny, black girl with a hand around her throat. He’s pointing a gun and growling in this low, threatening tone at a pale, lanky teenager with his back against the wall. The boy looks over at Steve, and his face seems to explode with this strange mix of hope, surprise, and fear; Steve knows what it means: _help me_. 

Steve knows this well-built man with his menacing leer—that’s Rumlow, all right. So he lunges, plunging into the fray, but Peter’s face is too trained on him and Rumlow _turns_ —Steve almost takes him by surprise, slamming his hand into Rumlow’s right arm, wrapping his arm around the asshole’s neck, trying to go for the gun, but Rumlow’s strength is uncanny. He’s already braced himself for Steve’s hit, so when they collide, he lets go of the girl and hammers his fist into the side of Steve’s head.

Steve’s thoughts are all blurring together in these vicious, sharp streaks of color—into fury, into madness, the kind of madness that he always joked about with Bucky ( _baby, I’m fucking crazy for you_ , he’d say, and Bucky would laugh, that beautiful sound, his head tilted back, and reply _, don’t kid yourself, Rogers, you’re crazy all the time_ ), and now, as he pummels his fists into Rumlow, trying to pull his meaty fingers away from the trigger, he knows what it feels like: blood-red _chaos_.

It’s not like the movies—alternating punches, roundhouse kicks, witty one-liners, and shit like that—it’s all primal grunts, crazed, half-intelligible phrases, and slamming whatever part of his body is free into Rumlow’s. 

He lets out this guttural scream and shoves Rumlow into the wall, but the other man’s got a grip on his hands, stopping him from punching anymore—it’s brute strength now, Steve’s fists trapped in Rumlow’s massive hands, the gun pinned between them, so he pushes, pushes, _pushes,_ and then rams his head into his chin. Rumlow gives a warbled grunt of pain but doesn’t let up; warmth trickles down Steve’s forehead, and he does it again, his forehead slamming into Rumlow’s mouth. This time, Rumlow goes, “Fuck!” and lets go—Steve takes the opportunity to punch him relentlessly, mercilessly, until his knuckles are wet and Rumlow is slipping, but he _still has the gun,_ and when he raises it, Steve doesn’t have enough time _—_ a _bang_ and all the noise crashes and churns—people screaming, Steve hears himself scream, “Run!” as he fights for the gun, but somehow he’s still fine, completely whole, no gunshot wounds, and Steve thanks God he missed.

He beats Brock until his knuckles go numb and Brock’s eyes roll up into the back of his head, and the violent recesses of his mind chant, _you hurt Bucky, I know what you’ve done, I KNOW WHAT YOU DID, you fucking SADIST, you deserve to DIE for what you did_ and his fists smash into Rumlow’s face until finally Steve collapses beside the man’s bloody face, lands a kick— _crack!_ —to the man’s ribs.

There’s whimpering behind him, this young, frightened sound that could almost be Bucky, but he knows it isn’t. He tries to stand up, but he’s swerving on his feet, swaying because the world is tilted on its side. A lot of the fight comes back to him in these broken, half-melted pieces—maybe Rumlow got more hits into him than he thought. He’s still holding the gun, staggering like a dazed drunk, and finds the boy huddled in the corner of the room. He’s clutching his leg; immediately, Steve spots the growing puddle of blood beneath the boy’s leg and curses. “You okay, kid?” he asks, and he chokes out a “yes.”

A drop of relief ripples through his back. “The girl… Where did she…”

The boy points shakily at the door. 

“Is there anyone else here?” His mind buzzes, whirs; he can barely think, but his mind focuses on his one thing: Bucky. “A guy my age? Um, long, dark hair… One arm?”

The boy looks at him like he’s just seen a ghost.

Steve shoves a hand in his pocket and pulls out Bucky’s crumpled MISSING poster, unfurling it with his bloodstained fingers. “I—I need to find him. He—he’s in danger—”

The boy’s eyes go horrifically, comically wide, and something anticipatory, something primal and human, screams from his gut— _danger, danger, DANGER—_

—and pain splits through his head; he turns with the gun in hand, but there’s already large hands squeezing around his neck, shoving him to the ground. He’s too light-headed; everything feels watery and shallow, and when Rumlow knocks the gun out of his hands, his fingers realize just a _second_ too late that their chance of winning this fight is _gone._

He’s on his back on the ground now, staring up at that sickening face, trying to get up, but every time he tries, Rumlow hits him again and agony splatters across his face—punch after punch after punch until Steve can’t get up anymore, his head stuffed with cotton, and he’s trying to reach for the knife in Rumlow’s hands. He’s growling something at Steve, spitting through bloodstained teeth. “He’s mine, pretty boy,” he gargles. “And you’re _never_ gonna get him back.”

Then this sharp, brutal pain ruptures his brain, sends him scattered in a thousand different pieces, and everything’s going dark, sound whimpering and pulsing and fading...

* * *

“911, what’s your emergency?”

Shuri’s throat is closing; she can’t even breathe; let alone speak. She’s hiding in the stairwell, about six rooms down from where Peter and the blonde man are fighting Brock. She can’t just _leave_ ; she can’t let what happened to James to happen to Peter, too.

“What’s your emergency?” the woman on the other line repeats. “Can you hear me?”

Shuri’s gasping, hyperventilating now, taking these ragged breaths that fill her head with dizzying terror. “I-I-I—”

“Miss, I need you to calm down, just tell me what’s going on.”

She’s stuttering, rambling names and trying to explain as best she can, talking about Brock and Peter and the blonde man, but it’s all coming out in these panicked bursts of air that she can barely understand herself. 

“Your friend,” says the operator, after Shuri collapses into hiccupy sobs, “where was he shot?”

_A_ bang _and then Peter collapses, and before Shuri can even have time to think, he’s on the ground, and he’s making this half-screaming sound—there’s blood bubbling from his thigh, too much blood—_ “U-um—his, um, leg.”

“Is he conscious?”

“I don’t, um—” Shuri presses her hand to her forehead, then her mouth. “I d-don’t _know…_ The other man, he got him, the man who shot him—and then I ra- _ran,_ I didn’t _think_ —” 

“Okay, that’s okay. Are you in danger?”

She doesn’t know, she doesn’t _know,_ and her fear spills out of her in buckets, all at once, until she’s sobbing into the phone. “Please help him, I I don’t know what to do, _andazi_ —”

“Miss,” announces the operator, “I need you to calm down. English, please, if you can. Is the man with the weapon still there?”

“Y-yes, I think so.”

“Okay, miss, stay on the phone. I need you to get to a safe location, that way we can...”

Shuri doesn’t hear the rest, only garbled English; she watches as a muscled figure with bloody teeth and black shoes appear at the top of the stairwell, and every molecule, every blood vessel inside her freezes. And then he glances over at her; ice drips, slips, slides down her back. But he simply scowls and runs down the stairs, shoves past her and stomps down two flights of stairs to exit at the creaky door at the bottom. 

And as soon as she comes back to her senses, she climbs shakily to her feet, tripping up the stairs. She can hear the woman on the phone, telling her to do something, but she moves of her own accord. “Peter?” she calls out, a terrified whisper. Oh, god… “ _Peter!_ ”

Her body is screaming for her to turn around, but she _can’t_. Not when Peter’s probably dying on that floor… She throws herself inside—Peter’s still there, curled on the ground, huddled in the corner. There’s blood pooling around his leg, streaming between his fingers; he’s pale and shaking the man beside him with his free hand, saying, “Man, c’mon, wake up, c’mon, please, wake _up_ …” The blonde man, the one who saved them, is sprawled face-up on the ground, eyes closed, and there’s blood splattering his body and the floor around him—most of it stems from his nose, but more spittles from his head and speckles his knuckles. “Wake up, c’mon, don’t be dead, please don’t be dead…” And when Shuri falls to her knees beside him, Peter’s getting more frantic by the second, tentacles of shock gripping him violently. “No, no, please, man, don’t be dead, don’t be _dead_ …” 

And the operator’s still speaking in her ear but she can barely understand her through the roaring hurricane growing in her mind—

—until finally the blonde man groans and stirs, blinking heavily, and there’s a set of hands pulling her away from the two of them, pressing and prodding and putting her on a stretcher. Everything seems mushy, like it’s slipping through her fingers the way blood spilled between Peter’s. 

And she’s shivering, like Jack Frost is breathing down her neck, and her body is clay, pulled apart and smashed back together until she doesn’t know which way is up. 

And there’s still this fear rising, this fear churning deep inside of her that _something bad is happening_. And she knows it’s right.

* * *

His brain is slippery—a pig’s heart held between a toddler’s hands, greasy and slick and tender, so easy to pull apart—and he’s trying to keep his grip on it. He _knows_ what happened—Brock, his hands on the girl ( _he lets go of the girl and hammers his fist into the side of Steve’s head_ ) and he can remember it all in moments of pain, each the swing of Brock’s sledgehammer fists, and it’s so fucking _hard to think_ , but now he manages one thought: Bucky. 

Bucky, Bucky, _Bucky…_

It’s the name he repeated at night when he was a kid, when his asthma was so debilitating he thought that every breath was his last.

It’s the name he screamed to the stars after he was gone, the name packed with heart-stopping horror, unspeakable fear, and stupefying worry.

It’s the name he whispered after that beautiful night of making love back when they were seventeen, the name moaned between sheets, the name danced across front steps, the name giggled into jars of hopes and dreams…

It’s the name that keeps Steve going, every single fucking day.

And right now, it’s what gets Steve back on his feet as these foreign, rubber-gloved hands push him back down, telling him in these words that now sound a thousand times more intricate than usual, and he’s pulling the words from his brain as though pulling the dead skin away from an old wound— _concussion, fracture, occipital, contusion, adrenaline, functioning, shock, rupture_ —and he shoves them all away despite their screeches of protest.

He has to find _Bucky_. 

More of what happened is coming back to him, little by little, covered by this thick film of jumbled, heavy pain. All in these disordered, nauseating pieces… But all that matters is one—that skinny girl, the one with dark eyes and that terrified, teary stare—she _knows_. She _knows_ where Bucky is.

So he knocks away the rubber hands and the tubes and everything that’s holding him down and barrels right at the girl—there’s this _thing_ , this ever-present discord, of screeches and slanted floors and cries and the stench of blood, inside of him, and now it’s growing louder, heavier—and everything is swaying, dipping, turning, but he gets his hand on her shoulder, and for her to finally look at him.

Splitting… His brain is splitting, but he focuses, fucking _hard_. “Where. Is. He.” There are hands, elbows, _people_ trying to pull him off, but he forces them away, just as the girl stops sobbing. “Where _is he,_ where the hell is _Bucky!?_ ”

The other people near him (something in the back of his mind spots the dark blue uniforms and the medical equipment and determines _paramedics_ ) are pushing and pulling and telling him _the police are on it, sir, please, calm down, you have to calm down, you’re—_

But all he hears is the girl’s answer, terrified: “B-Brook—dale, M-Med—Medical.”

Steve pushes them all away, tells them to fuck off. No one’s gonna stop him from getting to Bucky.

Steve finds another cab. 

* * *

Everything _hurts_ , just like before. It doesn’t feel exactly right—the sheets don’t smell so much like _him_ —but it’s mostly the same; he’s in a cold room, on a bed, mostly naked, with something over his mouth, but this time his hands are free. Bucky’s wrist feels heavy, but the pain is lethargic, like it’s underwater. He wants this fucking _thing_ out of his mouth; he wants to feel his arm again, not these phantom pains that flicker up and down where it should be. He keeps prying at the thing on his face, always, always, because now that his hand is free, he wants it _out_ , but whenever he wakes up, it’s back over his nose and mouth again. 

Most of all, he wants to go _home._

There’s a figure above him— _why is there always someone standing above him, just waiting for him to fuck up_ —and every muscle inside of him recoils in terror. He’s weak, so fucking _weak,_ and the only thing his body can find the energy to do is recycle that panic, the fear that boils in his bloodstream and sets his mind aflame. It’s that woman again, the one with dark hair and concerned eyes that keeps returning to make the hurt go away. She’s a dream. Bucky knows deep inside of him that she must be a dream, because everything she touches becomes a little softer, a little less painful, and that hasn’t happened in so long ( _pain overlapping over pain, a man’s voice_ ) that it must be impossible.

When he finally pulls out, out of the fucking nightmare of pain and voices and that fucking agony that no one should ever endure, that woman is standing at his bedside. She’s fiddling with something—it sends a flood of numbness through him. It’s not the numbness like he’s losing control of his body again, piece by piece, to some fucking drug Alexander Pierce used, but it’s a numbness that takes away the pain, that pulls a warm sheet over him and tucks him in.

“I’m Dr. Helen Cho,” she said. “I know you’re in a lot of pain right now, but hopefully the painkillers I just gave you helped a little bit. Can you blink if you understand me?”

He raises his hand again, puts his hand against the _thing_ on his face.

“No, don’t take that off, please.” She gestures to his front. “You’ve got quite a few broken ribs—you developed flail chest, a condition that made it hard for you to breathe…” Cho smiles a little. “We’ll talk about it later, when you feel better. Can you tell me your name?” 

She holds out a small tablet, instructing him to type his name on it, but he shakes his head. If he said his name, then Brock could _find_ him.

“Okay, maybe a little later, then. Could you tell me, at least, what happened to you? It’s hard for us to fully diagnose you without the context of the event, and the woman who brought you in wouldn’t tell us anything. Do you know who hurt you? Who assaulted you?”

Suddenly, violently, this pained panic suddenly strikes him; she _knows_ , just what Bucky did, because his pain, the pain he’s intimately familiar with, that all sex workers are intimately familiar with, has subsided with the help of her diagnosis. She knows, she knows, she’s _seen_ —

“Sir,” says Cho, “your heart rate’s a little too high right now. If we could just calm down, take a few deep breaths, then we’ll be okay… Nurse? Some help?”

Then there’s another figure entering the room and everything in Bucky’s mind just shuts down. 

He pulls the mask off—he doesn’t want to be used again, he doesn’t want to be fucking _sold_ , a toy for those men to fuck and toss around and hit until their anger is gone, he _doesn’t want it_ —

He just wants to go home again.

* * *

Bucky wakes up to hear arguing outside his room. He knows where he is, now; everything’s still chaotic inside of his mind, a whale on fire, but at least he knows where he is. _Square one_ , Steve called it. Knowing where he is, that he’s somewhere safe, is step one. _We’re starting here, baby. I believe in you_. 

It’s a man and a woman, although the door’s too thick from him to make out any real words. He hears pieces—agitation and irritation and protection—until finally the door opens.

He wishes it were Steve. Beautiful, beautiful Steve. All gentle eyes and warm hands, hands that held instead of bruised, hands that touched instead of burned. 

But a tall man staggers in instead, one with that cocky grin and a swollen eye, one with hands that pried him open and sucked him dry of all hope.

Brock fucking Rumlow.

And Bucky’s brain fucking stutters, freezes, doesn’t say a goddamn word. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, and Bucky’s damaged, abused body trembles. He’s wearing a police uniform, the blue and the black and the _oh-my-god, the gun_ ; Rumlow taps the gun with his forefinger, once, twice, then slides his hand over it like he’s caressing it. “Been looking all over for you.”

His breath is raspy, panicky, but his throat refuses to scream.

“I’ll make it really simple for you, _James_.” Brock’s sliding closer, and closer, and closer, and Bucky’s squirming like hell in this hospital bed, every bone in his body trembling. “Get your clothes on. We’re leaving.”

Bucky wants to shake his head. He wants to scream, _No, no, I won’t go,_ and then tell Dr. Cho what’s happening. That’s what Steve would do, anyway. Steve always did have that funny way of looking at life, like one spark of hope was enough to light up the whole planet.

But Bucky’s been around sex work for so long that he knows that’s not the way it works. 

Either he obeys, or he dies.

So Bucky obeys.

* * *

“Do we know for sure that it’s him?” Fury asks.

Carol tightens her grip on the steering wheel; the sirens wail louder. “Of course it’s him, Fury. A girl calls 911 on a man named Brock for attacking a teenage boy and a blonde man showed up and fought him? Who else could it be?”

Fury stares at his phone, where all of their new information relays in text form. Just ten minutes ago, police and paramedics arrived at the Brooklyn Riviera Hostel in Crown Heights after a teenage girl who refused to give her name called, hyperventilating about an attack by a man she called Brock. 

As they arrive on the scene, the head police officer lets them into the scene and updates them on the case. “The boy who was shot, Peter? He’s doing good—stable, I mean. They took him to Brookdale Medical, but he’s okay now. We checked out the girl, too, she’s okay, just spooked.”

Carol nods. “She have a name?”

The officer shrugs. “She wouldn’t give it.”

Now, things get interesting. As Nick visit the other witnesses of the case, Carol finds the girl at the corner of the scene, huddled beneath a shock blanket and rocking a little bit. “You’re the one,” says Carol, “who called 911.”

The girl shrugs.

“That was really brave of you, hon. What’s your name?”

She shrugs again.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Another shrug.

This isn’t just shock; something is wrong. Carol can see it in the way the girl jumps every time a police officer gets anywhere near her, the way her words lilt when she says, “Leave me alone, please.”

She recognizes the accent almost right away—it’s from Wakanda, a tiny African country, another nation with refugees that the United States refused to help. Maria’s father is Wakandan, so Maria knows the language, too, and Carol is deeply intimate with its past and its culture. And so, she knows that America hasn’t taken in more than a couple of Wakandan immigrants for at least a decade. “If you’re afraid of deportation,” says Carol, more quietly than ever, “then I can protect you.” It takes a little coaxing, but soon the girl, Shuri, is talking, explaining everything that happened, and Carol records all of it. About Shuri finding Bucky unconscious and handcuffed to a bed, about being trapped in the closet, about rescuing him, about bringing him home to the hospital, about meeting Brock again today. About meeting Steve. And when she gets to the end of her story, choking through a description of a frantic, desperate, and concussed Steve Rogers, Carol stands up, thanks the girl, and runs to find Fury.

“Steve went after Rumlow,” she exclaims, grabbing him by the shoulder and pushing him towards their car. “He went after Rumlow, and Rumlow went after Bucky, and the girl brought him to the hospital, and—”

“What?” responds Fury. “No, hold on, he did what?”

“That goddamn idiot,” Carol growls, as Fury pushes the car into drive, “went after Rumlow, and now we gotta find him before he gets himself killed.”

She pounds Steve’s number into her phone. The call rings, rings, rings… Nothing.

She tries again. And again. And again.

Nothing.

* * *

Steve’s too fucking late.

He’s gone from desperate to full-on batshit crazy, and as the six-foot, two-hundred pound guy with a face swollen like a melon and blood gushing from his nose and trickling down the back of his head, people scatter like roaches when they see him. The nurse is trying to explain to him what happened, with all these small, guilty phrases and nervous looks— “When the policeman came, we told him he should, um, wait to speak to the victim, but he said it was urgent, that our patient was in danger and he needed to be alerted—”

“And you _believed_ him?”

“We thought—he was an officer, it sounded so _real_ —”

Rumlow took him. When Bucky finally thought he was safe, Rumlow _took_ him. Fuck, he can’t keep _doing_ this—the back and forth, back and forth of having his hope smashed between Rumlow’s grimy fingers. 

The nurse in front of him is frowning, squinting. “Sir, your head… I think we should have you looked at; can you tell me what day it is?”

The funny thing is, Steve wouldn’t be able to tell her what day it was if he wasn’t suffering from several head injuries. Then he touches his forehead—it’s wet, probably bloody, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand, moving away from the nurse’s concerned hands. “It’s not my blood,” he lies quickly. He doesn’t have time for a hospital visit. “I’m fine.”

“That head wound looks pretty bad, sir, if you could just—”

“I said _I’m fine!_ ” More blood trickles down his face, runs into his eyes. 

They’ve told him all they can; no one fucking knows where Bucky is. 

As he leaves the hospital, Steve gives Tony a call. “Find him,” he says, in this half-crazed voice. “Find him, goddamn it.”

* * *

Bucky isn’t there.

Steve isn’t there. 

At first, Carol thinks they must’ve gone to the wrong hospital, maybe heard Shuri wrong when she answered her question, but a shaken nurse explains what happened, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “...and he was bleeding everywhere. I almost called security on him. He looked like he was about to collapse, and he just kept screaming, about the John Doe we had earlier—”

“Bucky,” Carol corrects.

“Right, yeah, him. We called him… James? That’s what the woman who brought him in said his name is.”

Carol shudders a little. She remembers, what feels like so long ago, when Bucky told her about why he didn’t like to be called James, how she realized she’d been unconsciously torturing him by calling him that. “Okay, okay, thank you.”

After talking to the doctor who treated him (a doctor named Helen Cho who explains the gravity of his condition), Carol only feels helpless again. No Bucky, no Steve… They’ve already frozen Rumlow’s accounts and sent police to his home and his ex-wife’s home, but there’s nothing they can do, now. They have no leads, nothing to go on… They’re back at square one.

Pacing back and forth just outside the hospital doors, Carol calls her wife.

Maria picks up after the first ring. “Hey, baby, how’s the case?”

All the anguish packed into Carol’s throat lets go in one tight breath.

“Okay, so, not so good?”

“No…” Carol explains as best she can, leaving out all of the names. She tells her about Rumlow, Johann, Steve, and Bucky… Even about Shuri and Peter. “Babe, I don’t know what to do. It’s a dead end. I’ve got nothing. How’s everything on your end?” It’s around noon, and it’s a Monday, which means Maria’s with one of her clients that she sees twice a week, a woman who struggles with anger management after, understandably, extensive physical and mental abuse from her father, as well as encouragement to be violent and impassive to emotion.

“Yeah… She’s doing better. Remember that breakthrough from last week?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she’s still feeling guilty about that—” A sigh. “She doesn’t think she has a right to get emotional about her father and what he did to her… It’s complicated. But she’s doing better.”

“That’s good.” Carol leans against the brick wall of the hospital. “Look, babe, I’d better get back to the case—

“Wait,” Maria interrupts, sternly, “you’ve still got the one attacker in custody, right?”

“Yeah,” she answers. “Why?”

“Well,” she starts, “maybe you should go back to him—he’s gotta know something. He spent however long with the victim, the kidnapper, and he doesn’t know where they’re going? Bullshit. He knows something. How long did you interrogate him for?”

Carol rubs her aching head. “Four hours.”

“That’s a while, Carol. And you said he just kept talking about all the shit he did to the victim, right? He probably let something slip.”

Carol stands up a little straighter. “Babe, I’ve already combed through his interrogation, and I couldn’t find anything about the victim or the kidnapper.”

“You’re not just looking for them,” she says. “You’re looking for the pimp, too, right? Because he wanted the victim.”

Carol stops. She knows, right now, that she’s too emotionally involved in this case. She never would have missed a motive as powerful as that if this was an average case of a sex worker being kidnapped—this motive is crucial to the case. There’s a high chance that Brock will bring Bucky back to Johann so that he can make more money off of _selling_ Bucky (and the thought makes nausea rise in her throat, bubble over), so now all she has to do is find Johann.

The hard part is, Johann’s a well-hidden, well-protected man; his position as a collector of all sorts of male prostitutes means that only those who utilize his services know where he lives. People who utilizes his services… That’s Jack Rollins. He must know where he is. “Maria, I wanna kiss you right now,” Carol says, confidence returning. 

Maria must hear the hope gushing into her voice, because she says, “You’ve got this, baby.”

Carol smiles. “God, I love you.”

A little laugh. “I love you, too. Go save the world.”

* * *

Carol and Nick get back to the station around one, and on the way she goes through her recording of Rollins’ interview. He has this goddamn long rant about Bucky, and she’s going through it again, with Maria’s comment at the forefront of her mind, and she finds one line, barely enough, but it’s there: _...and if he tries to run, Brock’ll just drag him back to Schmidt, every single time…_

So they drag Rollins back into the interrogation room. He _knows_ where Schmidt is, Carol knows he knows, and she threatens him just like last time, but he spits on her shoes. “I’m no snitch,” he snaps. “You can’t make me tell.”

“Look, Rollins,” says Fury, suddenly interjecting. “I know you think this is all about sex, but it’s _not_. Schmidt is a felon, not just because he sells people. He’s killed people—we’ve found kids, little kids, with bullets in their heads, all because they tried to run away from his fucking project. If he gets Bucky back, and he runs… He’ll kill him, too. He’s murdered _dozens_ of people, Rollins, and he’ll murden dozens more if you don’t tell us where he is.”

And finally Rollins stops. He’s almost...remorseful, gulping and going quiet. “Yeah, I fucked James,” he said, “but I’m no murderer.” He’s silent, agonizingly so. “I’ll tell you where Schmidt is.”

* * *

Rollins gives them an address that’s located in the Upper East, somewhere so nice and quiet that it’s hard to believe Johann Schmidt lives there, of all people. He lives in a wealthy apartment building, a penthouse just like Steve’s. They don’t clear the building; they don’t want Schmidt alerted to their presence, because he’s gotten out of situations tighter than this one because someone warned him. They make sure everyone else in the building stays on a full lockdown inside of their respective apartments.

Carol doesn’t always do combat, but she insists on going in for the raid on Schmidt’s penthouse. Fury gets a little hesitant, saying she’s _too emotionally involved_ or whatever the hell that means, but she maintains her position. She’s gonna get this motherfucker, and she’s gonna make him pay for what he did to Bucky. 

Carol calls backup for this one—her friend Rhodes and a couple of his guys—and sneaks through the front door with Fury, Rhodes, and three of Rhodes’ guys: Fitz, Hunter, and Morse. They move from room to room, ready for Johann to come back at them with a handful of heavy body-builders and machine guns. But as Carol moves into each room, she realizes that he never expected anyone to find him here, in his home. He’s not prepared for an attack like this. The rooms are so _human_ —there’s an half-played game of Scrabble on the floor by the couch, an opened box of Cheerios on the kitchen table, a nearly empty pot of lukewarm coffee sitting on the counter, a computer open to a stream of emails from Neiman Marcus and Brooks Brothers. And there’s clothing, too, a pair of wrinkled pants strewn in the hallway, a couple socks, a dark blue V-neck. 

And then they hear the moaning coming from the bedroom, with such a rhythm that it’s impossible to ignore. Grunting and moaning and more grunting… How appropriate. Carol motions them all forward, waits a moment, and then bursts through the front door with her gun out and ready to fire, her team behind her.

There’s Johann Schmidt, on top of a thin, naked man, and he startles as soon as Carol enters, sliding off of the younger man. He throws the sheet over himself, sitting up, but he doesn’t get down when Fury shours, “Everyone, get down on the ground, hands over your head! Hands over your head!”

Instead, Schmidt swipes a gun from beneath his pillow and points it at Carol, completely calm even though both he and the other man are naked and staring down the barrel of six different firearms. “You haven’t gotten me before, Danvers,” he declares, “and you won’t today.”

“You’re outnumbered, motherfucker,” snarls Carol. “Put your gun down and no one gets hurt.”

That’s when she turns to look at the other man, who’s naked and trembling a little. He’s pale, with straggly, platinum blonde hair, and these icy blue eyes. He’s curled in on himself a little, oddly submissive, in a way that reminds her so violently of Bucky that she tears her eyes from Schmidt, keeping her gun trained on him, and asks the man, “Are you here willingly?”

The man looks over at Schmidt, who gives him this angry, commanding glare, and after a moment, he looks back at Carol; it’s like the mask of lust and sex just peels off of him. He looks _terrified_ —he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. All of a sudden he looks _younger_ , and momentarily she wonders how old he is, but then she thinks back to the mission, and the thought vanishes.

“If you want to stay alive,” Carol says, with her gun still pointed between Schmidt’s eyes, “then you have to come to our side of the room.” The naked man nods, shivers, and takes a step towards Carol—

—and Schmidt grabs him by the neck, shoving the barrel of the gun into the man’s chin. “I’ll shoot!” he announces, and Carol’s horrified by the way the man just goes compliant in Schmidt’s hands, closing his eyes and drooping like a wilted flower. “Let me walk away, or I’ll shoot him. I _will_.”

And unfortunately, Carol does know that’ll he’ll shoot. She’s seen the dead bodies of kids as young as eight years old, slaughtered by his hand. She’s seen the hollow eyes of people the ones who survived, the ones forced to live for years under his fucking reign.

But Carol knows something that Schmidt doesn’t. 

Before they came in, Rhodes set up a sniper on the side of Schmidt’s building. If Carol gave the signal, then he could tell the sniper to shoot. As soon as the red light from the weapon appears on Johann, she’ll know they’re in position; all she has to do is stall.

As Schmidt digs the gun into the man’s—boy’s —cheek, he looks younger than ever with fear glistening in his eyes and this panicky _i-don’t-want-to-die_ look splayed across his face. “Just calm down,” says Carol, stalling for the sniper. “Put the gun down, Schmidt. You don’t want to do this.”

While Schmidt talks again, threatening both the young man and Carol herself, Carol watches a red light appear on his hand— _the sniper_. The blonde-haired man sees it, too, his eyes widening. “Tell me where Bucky is,” she snaps, distracting him from looking down, and stopping the blonde from saying anything at all. “Tell me, _now_.”

And Schmidt shouts at her, something about Bucky, and then everything happens at once: she presses the pager at her belt, the sniper receives the signal, a bullet whistles through the air, splintering glass, and hits Schmidt’s hand, blood sprays from the wound, Schmidt screams and lets go, the blonde man falls forward, Rhodes dives on top of the man, protecting him with his Kevlar-heavy uniform, and Carol lunges for Schmidt.

She lands on top of him just as he gets one hand on the gun, and she shoots his other hand before he can with vicious satisfaction. She twists his flailing arms behind his back just like she did to Rollins—“Ow, ah, _fuck you!”—_ and pins his legs down with her own, rendering him completely immobile. Then she yanks his head back by the hair, and slams the tip of her gun into his chin, just like he did to that young guy only seconds before.

“Tell me where Bucky is,” she repeats, her voice a determined lioness’s roar, “and I’ll consider keeping you alive.” 

* * *

Schmidt doesn’t give them a single word. He’s a wealthy man, and he knows his rights, so he just bites his tongue and keeps quiet, save the occasional _fuck you_ , mostly aimed at Carol. He starts making these noises, these fucking _cooing_ noises, at the young guy, so they usher him to the paramedics and out of sight. 

As Rhodes and his team take care of Schmidt, Carol goes back to the young man, with her notepad and her phone ready to record their conversation. He’s sitting inside the ambulance, and a female paramedic is talking to him gently, saying, “...kit, then you’ve gotta decide now. The evidence fades when you take a shower, change clothes… So if you want to press charges, you have to choose now.”

And the young man keeps shaking his blonde head, avoiding even meeting the woman’s eyes. As soon as Carol approaches, she gives them woman a firm nod. They’ve worked together on a case before—that’s Jane Foster, a sweet girl who’s taking a couple years as a paramedic before college, and somehow she always gets strung into the sexual assault cases. She knows Carol won’t do anything to wrongly accuse this guy, so she moves aside to let Carol ask her questions.

The blonde man is wrapped in a shock blanket, but someone got him a hospital gown that covers him a little more. “What’s your name?” she asks softly, sitting next to him. 

“Pietro,” he replies, still staring at his lap.

“Pietro, that’s a nice name,” she says. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” he answers miserably, and he tightens the blanket around himself.

A wave of shock washes over Carol. She looks past the makeup, past the hickeys on his neck, past the aura of a more experienced man, and sees Pietro for the first time—he’s a _boy_. She can see it more clearly now, in the soft lines of his face and that guilty, scared look in his eyes, like a toddler who’s just been scolded by his mother. 

“D-did—are you—” Pietro makes himself impossibly small. “Am—are you going to arrest me?”

“Of course not,” she says quickly, trying to keep her Schmidt-tainted fury out of her voice. “No, no, we don’t arrest people because they’ve been assaulted. We arrest the person who assaulted you.”

He shakes his head again. “It wasn’t like that,” he says, in that slightly foreign accent. “I’m not hurt, see?”

Carol’s voice drops to this soft, flightless tone she only uses when she’s putting Monica to bed. “Pietro, just because you weren’t hurt doesn’t mean it wasn’t rape. You’re fifteen. Schmidt’s an adult. That means you couldn’t consent to him, okay? It means he did something wrong, not you.”

Pietro only stares blankly at her, as though someone just told him the Earth was flat.

Carol doesn’t have the time to keep explaining the situation (and she doubts he would accept it anyway), so she moves on, asking him about Bucky. “Have you ever met a man with one arm, kinda young, dark hair? His name is Bucky, sometimes James?”

To her surprise, Pietro nods. “Once, a couple years ago. He was James then, but he is Bucky now, right? I saw him on the news.”

Carol nods. “Yeah, he… Yeah. Where did you meet him?”

Pietro gives her an exhausted shrug. “One of those clubs, I don’t remember which. Johann liked him as soon as he saw him. I thought he was going to Johann, to—to flirt with him? But instead he came to me, took me aside when Johann was not looking. He asked me if I was okay.” Pietro winces a little. “I don’t remember exactly what he said, but he didn’t want me there. Johann scared him away when he came back.” His shoulders slump. “I didn’t see him after that.”

“Has he talked about Bucky recently?”

Again, Pietro shrugs. “Johann always talks about the ones he likes. He likes Ja—Bucky. It’s the arm, I think. Makes him...different.”

“Did he tell you anything about a location, where he might take Bucky?”

A shake of the head, and Carol’s bewilderment is back. No one knows where the hell Bucky is. “I’m sorry,” says Pietro quietly. “If I knew, I would tell you. I would not want something bad to happen to him. He… He is a good man.”

Carol assures him it’s fine, but she knows it isn’t. If Johann won’t talk and Pietro doesn’t know, then they have no idea where Bucky is unless one of them contacts her. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she says out loud, and Pietro stands up so suddenly that Carol thinks instinctively of her self-defense training. “God, sorry, just sit—sit down.”

He sits, like a housebroken dog. _Fifteen_ , she thinks, and an image of Bucky sinks into her mind. How can she help him, when she had nothing to go on? How can she rescue him? Whatever it takes, she’ll find a way. Bucky won’t die, not on her watch.

She won’t let it happen. 

* * *

Brock is _furious_ , angrier than Bucky’s ever seen him. He keeps calling Johann, over and over and over again until he throws his phone down and screams, “ _Fuck!_ ” at no one in particular.

They’re in his car, parked in some empty lot, and Bucky doesn’t know where they are. He’s just sitting, hand in his lap, shoulders hunched; he can’t help it, but he’s trembling like he just walked out of a blizzard. The fear that courses through him is both horrifically familiar and _new_ , this fresh feeling of terror that hyper-focuses on Brock’s every move and darkens everything else. He hasn’t said anything since Brock took him from the hospital—he’s afraid that if he does, Brock will hit him again.

Sore isn’t the right word; every part of him is _screaming_ , some in pain and some in anticipation, his brain grating over blazing hot metal. He’s never seen this side of Brock, this fiery, determined edge. They drove past Brock’s apartment a while ago, discovering that there were police swarming the place, and Brock already tried using his credit card at a motel nearby, but it was declined. 

And the combination of all this, plus the blood still running from his teeth, and the swelling thickening of his face, makes him a bomb on the brink of explosion. After the fifth call to Johann’s cell, Brock whips around at Bucky—every muscle in him tightens in anticipation—and hits him so hard that dots blacken the edge of his vision. “Do you have a phone—do you have a _fucking phone_ , is that how Rogers got to the fucking motel? Did you—” 

Then he’s grabbing at Bucky, all hot-knife hands and enraged eyes, scrabbling at the loose clothing he has to try to find anything that feels like a phone, all the while Bucky’s crying out, “No, no, I didn’t—I swear, I didn’t, I _didn’t!_ ” And he’s not crying anymore, he’s just fucking _electrified_ , every inch of him, wailing for Brock to stop, but he never does, never, ever, ever—

—and something, in the quiet of Bucky’s mind, he hears Brock’s words again: _is that how Rogers got to the fucking motel…_ And it clicks. The blood smeared across Brock’s police uniform, the slowly-forming bruises on his face, the unchecked fury… Steve got to Brock and smashed his face to pieces.

Now, something is rising inside of him, from the pools of desolation and despair in his heart, something that gives him a little spark— _Steve_. It’s so difficult for Bucky to remember that, so incredibly to unlearn the four years of _no one cares about you_ that tarnished his soul. It goes against everything his brain is telling him, but it’s _there_ —it comes from months of love and affection, months of special care and random gifts like flowers at the front door and paintings of him smiling. It comes from the gentle, encouraging touches, and the touches that carefully back away when he says _no._ It comes from the _i love you_ text messages he gets randomly through the day and the inside jokes that come from years of knowing another person’s heart. It comes from months of therapy and reshaping his tainted heart and Jennifer’s insistent voice: _Bucky, Steve loves you._ It comes from Steve and his infinite _compassion_ and the wonderful, impossible love that he shows Bucky every fucking day. 

Now it’s crawling to the forefront of his skull like the lone survivor of a bloody massacre: _Steve’s coming for me._

And Bucky doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Brock’s inches from him, hot breath on his face. “What the _fuck_ did you just say?”

The submissive silence that’s been ingrained so deeply into his bones is a wet blanket, sticky and cold and impossible to peel away from his nervous skin. His words clog in his throat, apologies and pleas for mercy and pure terror. “N-nothing, n-no, I d-didn—”

Brock fists his hand around Bucky’s wrist, so tightly that Bucky swears the bones there grind against each other, and he lets out this irrepressible yelp. “Rogers,” he spits, “doesn’t give a fuck about you. You’re just a good fuck, and we all know it, James. You don’t fucking _matter to him._ You’re _mine._ ”

And he’s dragging Bucky into the backseat, and it’s so fucking _familiar_ to Bucky that he barely fights back, just rolls over and tries not to think about it, as the words _you don’t fucking matter to him_ echo and roll around in his head, and Brock’s groping under his waistband and grunting _you’re mine, you’re fucking mine_...

_...and Steve’s sitting at the kitchen table, just painting at the kitchen table. There’s a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich beside him, and a cup of coffee, too. Mornings are Steve’s best time to work—he said something, once, about needing both his brain and his canvas to be blank._

_It’s around nine o’clock now, and this is the time when Bucky usually goes for a run. It helps him breathe, to get his system moving, but right now he can’t get himself to leave the apartment. Bucky can’t even make himself inch across the carpet and into the kitchen to ask Steve to help him._

_There’s something fundamentally_ wrong _with this morning, something that settles deep within his chest and pinches till it bleeds. He doesn’t know why, but everything’s warped, like he’s seeing it through blood-tinted lenses. Every noise is a spark to his dynamite brain; every shift in his peripheral vision sizzles and burns. The apartment is a battleground—the bed, the couch, the kitchen floor, the carpet, the way light filters from one room to another—yet he doesn’t know how to turn it back into a home._

_His toes curl in the living room carpet, and he takes a tiny_ (enormous) _step back. Even if he did manage to walk up to Steve, he doesn’t think he could muster up the courage to ask him for help. Steve’s beautiful artwork is what pays for this beautiful penthouse and everything inside, the luxuries that Bucky so selfishly uses up every single day, and even Bucky’s therapy, the one thing that’s supposed to help him in situations like this one. It would be incredibly selfish of him to interrupt Steve in the middle of his work just because he’s having a bad day._

_Steve’s artwork is worth thousands upon thousands upon thousands of dollars; Bucky… Bucky is worth… He tries not to think it, but he can’t stop his pitch-black past from leaving ebony handprints all over him, and his brain says it for him automatically, like a trained fucking dog—_ twenty for a blowjob, fifty for sex, a hundred to stay over. _At his best, he’s worth a hundred dollars._

_His boyfriend’s name catches in his throat: a plea for help as another wave of horror, of degradation and desperation and pain, seeps in through his skin._

_And all this time Steve is humming, slightly off-key, to the music playing in his earbuds. It’s some Ed Sheeran song that Bucky knows because Wanda loves it, but right now he can’t remember on his life what it’s called. Who is he to drag Steve away from such a happy, picture-perfect moment, from his life’s passion, from his happiness? He’s not worth all that, and he never will be._

_But he’s spiraling. He has to talk to him, because every fiber of his being needs_ Steve. _He has to, but he_ can’t _. So he texts him instead; he’s always been better at writing than speaking, anyway. He sees Steve’s phone on the kitchen table beside him, plugged in to his earbuds._

**r u busy** , _he asks, half a statement and half a question._

_He expects Steve’s phone to buzz beside him, but it doesn’t; it must ping in his earbuds, because he looks up from his painting almost immediately, startled._ Shit. _Bucky didn’t mean for him to look at it_ now _. He thought Steve would glance at it later, when he was done painting. Instead, he gives this dopey, wonderful smile to the phone, one that he reserves for Bucky alone._ **nope** _, Steve responds simply._ **what’s up?**

_Bucky curses himself and his idiot brain. He didn’t mean to interrupt him, he didn’t mean to bother him…_ **r u sure?** _he types._ **u still have that painting due tomorrow.**

_Then those three dots appear on Steve’s side of the screen, and this steel coil of barbed wire twists in his gut. He would never give up his painting to help Bucky with his stupid fucking trauma, he should know this by now. He’s just not as important. Finally, Steve’s words display on the screen:_ **you matter more than any painting, baby.**

_Bucky stares at the words, over and over and over again until they’re imprinted in his brain. This kind of love, this kind of loyalty doesn’t seem possible right now, so he texts back,_ **steve you failed your spanish final junior year because you wanted to finish a painting and pulled an all nighter.** _He’s distracting himself, because he doesn’t want to believe that Steve loves him that much. It’s impossible, right?_

_He hears Steve laugh from the kitchen._ **ok true,** _he replies,_ **but.** _Then those three dots, pending and pending and pending until—_ **you’re my mona lisa :)** _Bucky doesn’t know how to respond to that. Steve’s love is leaking back into his body, one finger at a time, and some of the darkness is peeling away._ **you’re the most important thing in my life,** _Steve continues._ **always** ** _._ ** _Tears burn behind Bucky’s eyes, and this soaring gratitude bubbles up in his throat._ **so what’s up?**

_And his words aren’t perfect._ **i just feel i feel bad i don’t know, i don’t know what to do it just feels really bad now.**

_No hesitation._ **where r u?**

_It takes a moment for Bucky to realize that Steve thinks he’s out on a run. It’s happened before, when Bucky passes somewhere that leaves him ashamed or panicking or needing Steve. So Bucky texts,_ **living rm** ** _._ **

_Steve turns around and Bucky’s there, hovering guiltily in the doorway, phone shoved back into his pocket, and he smiles. He doesn’t ask how long he was there or anything that might make Bucky uncomfortable. He just says, “Tell me what you need, baby…” and they go from there._

* * *

The cab driver, an old man named Howard, thinks Steve is crazy.

He’s paying him extra to drive around the city and look for Bucky, and he keeps checking the same places: the motel, the hospital, Brock’s place, the police station, over and over again. He checks all the police stations and hospitals nearby, too, and coming in with a busted face and blood running down the back of his shirt doesn’t make anyone any calmer, but he doesn’t give a fuck.

He has to find Bucky.

Howard is grumpy, and he gets fed up every five minutes when Steve tells him to turn back around and go to the hospital, but Steve just pays him more and tells him to keep going. “You’re getting blood on my car,” grumbles the white-haired man, and Steve ignores him.

He doesn’t care about getting blood in Howard’s cab.

He doesn’t care about money.

He doesn’t care about anything.

He just cares about Bucky.

Eventually, after hour upon hour of driving around the city, he ends up back at Tony’s place, pacing back and forth as Tony tries to find Bucky and Pepper calls their on-call doctor to take a look at Steve’s head. “Don’t do that,” he snaps at her, and she startles, stepping back.

Sometimes Steve forgets that people see him as _dangerous_ , as a threat to their personal safety. It scares Tony, too, and it shows, in his tense shoulders and quick glances. 

“Steve,” she says calmly, carefully, like a vet talking to a rapid Rottweiler, “you’re bleeding on my floor. Head wounds can be fatal, and you don’t want—”

“I don’t fucking care,” growls Steve, and whips around at Tony. “Did you find anything?”

“Not yet, I’m working on it—”

“Then work fucking _faster!"_

His chest is heaving, and his head is spinning, and everything feels too sharp, like a bathtub full of needles. He _knows_ that something horrible is happening to Bucky right now, and the only person who can find him is Tony Stark, and he’s not working _fast enough_ , they might be _too late_ —

“Sit down, Steve,” says Pepper, sweeping her strawberry-blonde hair to one side. She pushes a chair behind him, and suddenly he’s sitting. “Tony’s working as fast as he can. I know you’re worried, but the best thing you can do right now is be patient.”

“Be _patient_ ,” Steve scoffs. “Bucky’s out there with his rapist, who’s been blackmailing him for _months,_ raping and fucking _torturing_ him, who already shot a fifteen-year-old kid in the thigh and attacked a girl, who went to the hospital and fucking _kidnapped_ him, and you want me to be _patient?_ ”

“It’s all we can do, now,” says Pepper, gently. “It’s all we can do.”

So they wait.

And Steve paces.

And they wait some more.

* * *

Brock leaves him in the back of the car like that, and he drives and drives and drives until finally they stop with a jerk. Bucky’s been in and out of consciousness this whole time, and when he opens his eyes and it’s dark outside, he blinks again, trying to clear the darkness, but it’s still _there._

It’s nighttime, he realizes, as Brock yanks the car door open and grabs his leg to wake him up out of bleary half-consciousness. He throws a pile of clothes onto Bucky—a blue shirt, a pair of sweatpants. No fucking underwear. “Get dressed,” growls Brock. “Now.”

Bucky doesn’t even have time to wonder when Brock had the time to get him clothes in his size. He just shoves them on him, just glad to have _something_ that isn’t a hospital gown or a stranger’s black uniform or nothing at all. 

Brock’s angry hands are around his upper arm, clenching, pulling him out of the car. “Let’s _go_.” 

And as Bucky stumbles a little on the sidewalk, staggering through the pain, and he realizes that everything seems _familiar._ “Wha—um—wh-where are we—”

And Brock gives that wicked fucking smile. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize it, _Bucky_.” He points, and Bucky shudders. “We’re home.”

* * *

They get past security when Stan’s on break; Brock has one heavy arm slung over his shoulders, pinning him close. They get into the elevator side by side, and he keeps whispering things to Bucky, things that Bucky never wants to remember, things that make him shrink and draw back into his head as Brock’s arm lowers, rests in that low, low spot on his back that Steve hadn’t even touched yet. Brock rubs and squeezes, and when Bucky sucks in this terrified, shaking breath, he just curls his hand around his hip, squeezes again, sliding slightly beneath the waistband of the sweatpants _he_ bought Bucky, stroking. 

Bucky goes deep, deep into his head, so far that Brock can’t even touch him.

So he thinks of Steve.

_It’s in the first few weeks after their first kiss that Bucky feels a little on edge. He can’t help it—sure, he knows that kiss was mutual, but who’s to say that the next one will be, too? Will Steve expect him to kiss him all the time now? How many times a day? How soon will he be giving Steve a blowjob, or having sex with him, or doing whatever else he wants? And he tries to remind himself that Steve’s not like the others, but it’s so fucking_ hard _._

_And Bucky doesn’t know how it happens, but they’re sitting on the couch together one night, and it happens; Steve leans towards him and Bucky stiffens, saying, “Just, just don’t kiss me, okay, I don’t think—I can’t do it, not right now—fuck, I mean, you can, sorry, I didn’t mean—didn’t mean to, god—_ ”

_And by that point Steve’s backed far away from him, doing that little chant he does reminding Bucky where he is, who he is, that he’s okay, etc._

_But that’s not what’s happening right now. Bucky knows exactly where he is. He knows exactly who Steve is. And he knows that he’s okay._

_But he doesn’t know what Steve wants._

_He shakes his head, cringing. “Sorry,” he whispers, and his breathing and his explanation get tangled up in his throat. It’s all so fucked up, how Steve, the one person Bucky knows best in this entire world, is the one person Bucky can’t read right now, all because of months and months of conditioning that makes him think everyone wants sex from him._

_“It’s okay,” Steve says, and he smiles. God, that smile. “Just breathe. Take your time.”_

_Somehow, Bucky doesn’t feel patronized—he just gets it out, piece by piece._

_“So you think,” says Steve carefully, trying to understand Bucky’s perspective, “that there are expectations now? You think that if you don’t kiss me when I want, then I’ll get mad, is that it? That I’ll hit you, or I’ll do it anyway, or I’ll leave you?” Bucky nods, swallowing, and after what feels like hours but must’ve been half a second, Steve gives him that blissful smile that means only one thing:_ it’s okay.

_And then Steve gets up, starts moving the furniture, and Bucky’s just rambling, back to thinking that Steve’s mad, because he’s moving everywhere and Bucky doesn’t know what’s happening. “—not all the time, I promise, it’s just sometimes, when it gets really bad, that it’s harder to handle—god, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, you deserve so much better than this…” And he’s fiddling with his fingers and picking at his cuticles, and muttering, “You deserve better than me, this fucked up me…”_

_And it’s then that he sees Steve moved the coffee table so that he could kneel in front of Steve, on one knee. And he’s smiling, even wider than before, and he’s holding out a crumpled piece of paper that had been sitting on the table._ What the hell _, Bucky thinks, but he stays sitting down. “Bucky Barnes,” says Steve, soft and gentle and wonderful. “I swear that I will never, ever, ever force you to do something that you don’t want to do. I swear I’ll never hurt you. I swear I’ll do everything in my power to make you feel safe and loved.” Steve looks up at him, an adoration just fills Bucky to the brim. “And I will never, ever touch you when you don’t want to be.”_

_That’s when Bucky touches Steve’s face, carefully, like it’s going to fall apart in his hands, and kisses him sweetly; Steve lets Bucky lead, and they go, kissing like there’s no tomorrow, kissing like nothing else bad can ever touch them… Bucky’s feeling loved again, feeling like he’s worth something, like Steve wants him not just for his body, this time. And finally, when Steve pulls away, he says, amused, their noses touching, “Now you gotta say it back.”_

_Bucky nuzzles at Steve’s face a little, and their lips brush. “Mmm… Why?”_

_“Because I’m afraid” —a quick kiss— “that you’ll take all the coffee before I can get some, like yesterday. You gotta promise.”_

_Bucky laughs. “Only if you promise to not take the last package of Thin Mints and hide them in your closet.”_

_“Come on, Buck, those things are like heaven, how was I supposed to resist—”_

_And Bucky cuts him off with another kiss, all his this time, completely and utterly beautiful. And when they finish, Bucky sits beside Steve on the couch, and that terrible ache inside him has faded, subsided to a manageable level._

_Fuck, he loves Steve Rogers._

* * *

Once they get to the penthouse, Brock unlocks it. He somehow has the key—Bucky realizes with horror that he took it from the pocket of Bucky’s jeans back at the motel. 

“Steve’s g-gonna come back for me,” Bucky whimpers, and immediately he regrets having said it, because as soon as the door is closed and locked behind him, Brock comes at him, smashes his fist into his gut, and he wheezes, pain splattering through his chest.

“You need to shut the fuck up,” growls Brock, “or I’ll fuck you into a wall like I did last time, huh? You want that?”

And he’s beating him, but it’s not sexual, and it’s not to make him submit—it’s just _anger,_ this vicious fury that he’s losing what he thought he deserved. And he’s screaming and hitting him and beating him to fucking pulp, and Bucky can barely raise his arm to defend himself.

And soon enough Bucky’s shaking his head, on his hand and knees in front of Brock, already sobbing, his head cloudy and filled with _last time_ , and Brock grabs him by the hair, leans in close. “And if pretty boy comes,” he says, raising the gun, “then I’ll blow his pretty brains out.” And he leaves Bucky on the floor like that, bloody and stunned and petrified as he takes out his phone to call Johann again.

The cold, shuddering panic goes through him; Brock has never threatened to kill Steve before, and he knows Brock far too well—he follows through with his threats. And a conversation he had with Steve a million and one days ago floats into his mind: _What happens,_ Bucky whispered, as they lay in bed one night, _if Pierce comes for me?_

And Steve went oddly quiet. _Then I’ll fight him._ His voice was still. Dangerous.

And Bucky curled into Steve’s back. _But what if… What if it’s just me?_

Then Steve turned around in the bed, watched Bucky carefully. His blue eyes scanned his face. _Then, if you can, you fight him._

_How?_ he asked. _I can’t even look at him without…without…_

And Steve, strangely, frowned. _You don’t have to look at him,_ he said. _If you find a weapon… A knife, a bat, anything… Then he’ll be less likely to attack you. And if he comes at you, close your eyes and swing, baby, okay?_

And Bucky nodded and closed his eyes. Back then, their threat was Pierce, which is almost laughable now. Pierce was held back by reputation, by his family, by his company from attacking him in the middle of the street. But Brock had nothing to lose. No partner, no family, a prison sentence under his belt… 

The one good thing about Brock dragging him back to his house is that Bucky knows where everything is. It’s his apartment, and he knows that there’s a bat by the front door and an array of knives in the kitchen. So as Brock screams into a phone, trying to find Johann, Bucky moves towards the kitchen, crawling one grueling inch at a time, hoping Brock won’t notice. He’s crawling and crawling, and Steve’s voice is in his head, encouraging him, letting him go, one painful movement at a time. He pictures Steve beside him, motivating him, placing a kiss on his forehead, saying, _Come on, baby, you got this. You can beat him._

By the time Brock notices, Bucky’s already halfway through the kitchen; Bucky’s one advantage is that Brock never thought he would have the audacity to fight back—with Steve at his side, he does. So as Brock screams, “No!” Bucky’s already scrambling across the floor and grasping a kitchen knife in his hand, waving it around dangerously. He tastes blood in his mouth (he doesn’t remember why), and his words taste like blood, too, as he spits, “No. No. N-no more.” There’s this crazed tone to his words, something like fear or distress or shock or maybe all three.

Brock lunges, and Bucky ( _close your eyes and swing, baby, okay?_ ), for the first time in forever, fights back.

* * *

Steve can’t stop pacing.

Pacing and pacing and pacing.

He can’t stop, like the rhythm of it is Bucky’s heartbeat, and if he slows, then…

He eventually lets their doctor sew up his head, let his careful fingers poke and prod him and tell him, “I can give you some medication to help you, but, sir, this is a pretty major concussion. I’d recommend no physical activity, no reading, no video games… I’ll need to take a better look at you later, in the hospital...”

Steve stopped listening a while ago. Now, he’s pacing again, just pacing, watching Tony search camera after camera after camera for Bucky and Rumlow. 

It feels… He doesn’t want to say it: _hopeless_.

He’s in the middle of the storm now, in the eerie calm, and he wants to be back out into the fray, with blood spraying across his knuckles. He wants to beat Rumlow until he knows what it’s really like to be hurt. He wants Rumlow to know the fear, the paralyzing terror that Bucky experiences every single day.

Somewhere in the eye of this Brock Rumlow hurricane, there’s Steve, barely injured, screaming, screaming, screaming, with the ache of a Bucky-shaped hole searing in his chest. 

He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what to do.

* * *

Bucky gets two good slashes in, one across Brock’s face that spills blood across his cheek and one that opens up his shoulder with a spray of blood that makes him howl in pain.

But Bucky’s just not strong enough.

With barely enough energy to stand, he’s fighting Brock for the knife now, but Brock’s fighting for power and he’s fighting for _survival_ , and they’re on the ground now, fumbling for the knife, going back and forth until their fingers are both slimy with blood and slipping over the handle, and Brock’s roaring, “You fucking _whore_!” and wrenching the knife away and Bucky’s still got his hand on it and he’s trying to get it back but Brock’s lunging at him again—

—and his front bursts with pain; this horrible, involuntary whining sound pushes through his lips. Brock just looks shocked, his face blank. Bucky looks down, and the knife’s in him, _in him_ , and Brock wrests it out without much care for his sense of pain. It’s not suffocating, just _painful_ , and Bucky claws his way to his feet while Brock is staring at the bloody knife, tripping to his feet, and he’s hobbling through the home he once loved, holding his one hand to his stomach, crying harder now, past Steve’s paintings and Bucky’s memories, until Brock catches him by the ankle—

—and jerks him backwards, and he swears something _snaps_ , but Brock doesn’t hear it because he just pulls and pulls until Bucky’s shirt is torn and he must black out for a second because—now there’s a mattress beneath him and a man’s weight on top of him, pinning him down, and he’s rambling, growling, “It’s not my fault if you die, slut—I just wanted the fucking money, just wanted Schmidt to get off his ass and get me my money, you moved, you fucking _moved,_ I didn’t mean to—”

Bucky loses track of the rest of his speech, because he’s trying to keep from _freaking the fuck out_ as Brock ties his legs down with something, rope or whatever the hell that is, and it’s only a matter of time before he’s helpless again—

—and that’s when he remembers, a lifetime ago, that he was terrified as he slept, that Brock or Pierce or Steve or someone would come for him as he slept, so he put a _knife_ under his pillow. So, as Brock speaks with his back to Bucky, straddling Bucky’s hips and tying something around his kicking ankle, he feels around beneath the pillow, groping blindly, until his hand touches something cold and hard, and he _grabs_ , he _closes his eyes_ , and he _swings,_ nailing something fleshy and definitely _human,_ and when he opens his eyes again there’s blood running down Brock’s head, and he’s turning around to try to grab at Bucky, but everything’s _off_ because Bucky hit him in the head, and he fucking _misses,_ so Bucky swings again, and again and again and _again_ —crying and crying and swinging until a heavy body slumps on top of him _,_ the weight forcing the air out of him in a heavy _whoosh._ The feeling of a body on top of him sends memories screeching at his skull, nightmares hammering at his head, and there’s only adrenaline rushing through him instead of fear now, because he somehow manages, after several terrifying tries, to push Brock’s body off of his own, until it hits the floor with a massive _thump._

He kicks his legs free—Brock wasn’t quite finished—and presses his hand against his stomach. There’s more blood than ever, but it’s so hard to know how much when his vision is blurry with tears and trauma, and it _fucking scares him._ He’s never been so scared in his whole life, never held a bloody knife in his hand and realized he was holding it by the _blade_ —that’s why he had to hit so many times, because he was hitting with the handle, and he drops it, collapses to his knees beside Brock’s limp body.

Bucky knows what he _should_ do—call the police, call an ambulance, tell them what’s wrong, but he _doesn’t_. He knows he’ll never make it to the front door, let alone the elevator or the stairs.

He can feel it happening—can feel the life leaking between his fingertips, can feel his brain dissolving into nothingness, can feel the pain going numb, can feel everything inside of him sigh simultaneously.

He wants Steve.

He doesn’t want his last call to be to a stranger.

He wants his last call to go to Steve.

He wants to hear Steve’s voice again.

He fumbles for Brock’s phone; everything’s mixed up now—his brain is a circus—flashes of violent color amidst murky, looming shadows, and his senses are waning, in and out, like a broken radio: the cold phone in his hand, the wetness spreading over his stomach, the metallic taste in his mouth…

He crawls to the only place he feels safe.

And he calls the love of his life.

* * *

“Hello?” 

On the other line, there’s only this unintelligible sobbing, these haggard, wet whimpers.

They’re not just anyone’s sobs. Those belong to _Bucky._

Steve stands up suddenly, so suddenly that Tony jumps. “Buck—Bucky?” Steve breathes, and disbelief strangles him.

Everyone in the room—the doctor, Pepper, and Tony—turn to him, but Steve doesn’t hear them. He only hears Bucky. More sobbing, more of these strained, quiet noises, and Steve _knows_ it’s him.

“Bucky, Bucky, talk to me, baby—baby, please, god, _talk to me—_ are you okay? Where are you? Bucky?”

A choked noise. “I-I-I’m sorry.” 

His words are half-slurred, half-broken, and Steve has never been more terrified in all his life. “No, baby, you don’t have to be sorry, tell me where you are, please, Buck, tell me and I’ll come find you, okay?”

A ragged, despondent sigh that sounds too goddamn much like Steve’s name. “I did—didn’t mean… Before… The roof… Wa-wanted to tell you…” The crying, the crying, and Steve’s breaking apart. “...I l- _love_ you.”

And when Bucky’s voice caves into battered hiccups and pained gasps, Steve says frantically, “Baby, I know you love me, I know, don’t worry, I love you, too, just tell me where you are and you can tell me yourself, right? You can tell me, and then I can bring help, we can help you—”

“You,” Bucky echoes, and he hiccups. “You… I-I’m sorry. Didna mean… T-to lie...to y-you...”

“It’s okay, Bucky, it’s okay, it’s not your fault—” Steve’s voice hinges on desperation, on chaos and terror. “Tell me where you are, baby, and we’ll figure this out. Tell me where you are. _Tell me._ ”

And Bucky says something, something he can’t understand through sobs and this _wet coughing—_

“B-baby, please, god, fuck, tell me what’s wrong, where are you, I’ll help you, _please—_ ”

And there it is, a whisper, a sob, a goddamn song: “I’m _sorry_.”

“Bucky, no, baby, please—” The phone clicks, goes dead and Steve feels the silence thickening inside of him.

There’s a hand on his shoulder. “Steve. Steve!” He turns around, eyes filled with this numb shock. “Steve, we already called the police, but he—I tracked his phone.”

“Where is he?” Steve manages.

Tony swallows. “Your apartment.”

His muscles tighten. “Where are your keys?”

Tony and Pepper exchange this guarded look.

“Don’t play this fucking _game_ with me! Where are the _fucking keys_?!”

Tony stands up, probably to stop him or comfort him or give him a fucking lecture— “Here,” he says, keys in hand. “The car’s out front.”

So Steve goes.

* * *

Traffic is a fucking nightmare.

Steve gets halfway to his apartment before he’s stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, the kind that even police cars can’t weave through, as sirens wail and screech in his ears, rippling over the city noise. There’s an accident somewhere a couple blocks up, cars crumpled and wrecked, people screaming...

He can’t just sit here.

He can’t just wait while Bucky suffers, hurting and fucking _alone—_

He jumps out of the car, leaves it running in the middle of the fucking street.

He knows the way home.

So he runs.

* * *

Steve runs in to his apartment with a headache so nauseating that spots darken his vision, grabs the baseball bat next to the front door, and screams Bucky’s name like it’s his last word. “ _Bucky!”_

He’s opening every closet, every door, and there’s blood splattered in the kitchen, smeared on the floor, speckling the floor. He follows it, follows and follows and follows—

—and there’s Brock fucking Rumlow in Bucky’s room, rolling in the ground, struggling to his feet, so Steve whips his bat into Brock’s head, and it meets with a satisfying _thunk_ , knocking him completely unconscious.

There’s no final battle.

No boss level.

Only Bucky.

* * *

Steve finds Bucky in the bathtub, curled up in this sticky pool of blood, eyes half-closed, his lips moving slowly, silently, like a prayer. He looks like he’s walked through hell and barely emerged on the other side—bruises smatter his pale body, blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, his ankle bends awkwardly beneath him, blood blossoms over his shirt, _fuck—_ “Bucky,” he whispers. “Oh, my god—”

With a sob, he touches him, like he’s a ghost, like he’ll dissipate into ashen smoke beneath his fingertips. “It’s me,” he says, his fingers sliding toward the wound in Bucky’s torso, “It’s Steve—”

Bucky flinches, lethargically, a few beats too late. He turns his head, his movement too fucking slow, and as soon as his eyes land on Steve, he relaxes a little, this oddly delirious smile spreading across his face. “Steve…”

Hearing his voice is like taking his first breath of fresh air after drowning in a lake of poison. “Yeah, baby, it’s me. I’m here, I’m here.”

“You’re…” He blinks, blinks again, and tilts his chin a little. “...here.”

Steve’s pressing towels against the wound, trying to remember everything he learned in high school about stab wounds and first aid, but he barely remembers how to breathe, let alone Ms. Greer and her classroom full of CPR dummies. “God, Bucky, what did they do to you…”

“It...hurts…” Bucky whimpers, as if suddenly remembering. “Steve…please...”

It’s all coming to him at once; this is it, this is the final moment he has. This is… This is everything. There’s not enough time, _he wishes he had more time_ , but all he has is this moment, where he can make Bucky feel safe ( _I swear_ , he said once, on one knee, _I’ll do everything in my power to make you feel safe and loved_ ). They can only wait for the police to get here, can only wait for Bucky’s bleeding to slow… “I got you, baby,” Steve says, and he slides into the bathtub behind him, Bucky leaning back into him, Steve curling his arms around his waist, holding the towels firmly against Bucky’s front. He folds his fingers, weakly, around Steve’s, and Steve, shakily, kisses his head. “I got you…”

“I’m...s’rry…” slurs Bucky.

Steve shushes him, careful not to jostle him at all. “Baby…”

“...didn’t have...forever…” he finishes, with a teary gasp. “You...deserve...forever.”

“I don’t need forever,” Steve assures him, and this horrible feeling, something like melancholy, or maybe grief, washes over him, “I just need you to stay with me, okay, baby? You’re gonna be okay, we’re gonna be okay. We’ll have our future, okay? No one’s gonna take that away from us, not even” —he can’t say it, not yet, _Brock Rumlow_ — “the bad guys, no one.”

Bucky’s head lolls back onto Steve’s shoulder, and his eyes are closing… “Tell me… ‘bout... future.”

This delicate string of panic tightens around his heart.“Don’t close your eyes, Buck, stay awake for me, okay, baby?” he whispers. “You gotta hear about our future.”

And he gives a little _mm-hmm_ and his eyelashes flutter. “Tell…”

“Well,” Steve starts, his voice soft, and Bucky’s head drifts into that place where his shoulder meets his neck, resting, “we’re gonna move to Brooklyn, I think, somewhere, like Park Slope, what do you think? And, god, we’ve gotta get a dog. A big one, one that’ll keep us” — _you—_ “safe. We’ll name it Superman or Obama or something stupid like that.” He feels Bucky laugh a little against him, then tense up. “And we’ll, uh—we’ll go to a different place to eat for every day of the week, except Fridays. On Fridays, I’ll cook for you.”

“For me…” Bucky murmurs. 

“Yeah, baby, for you, always for you.” His voice is breaking, splintering, cracking. “I’ll make you waffles for dinner, remember? Your favorite.” A soft _mm_ of agreement from Bucky. “And we’ll go for walks, like every day, even when it rains, and our dog will splash in all the puddles, so we’ll be shivering, practically hypothermic, baby, so by the time we get back we’ll take a hot bath, with all our clothes on, just to get warm again…”

“Warm…” Bucky echoes, and his fingers move over Steve’s.

“...and then we’ll dry off, put on that movie you love, the one with Will Smith, and sit by the fire… Baby? Buck? Bucky!” And Bucky moves again, stirring a little, and the terror in Steve’s chest dwindles. “Keep listening, baby, please, are you listening?”

Bucky: _mm-hmm_ , and his fingers still.

“And we’ll bake cookies, Buck, all the cookies you could ever want. And we’ll give them to all our friends, Nat and Peggy and Sam and Wanda… Bucky, it’ll be so goddamn beautiful, just...” And he’s crying now, tears spilling down his cheeks, so fast that he couldn’t stop them if he wanted to. “Just stay with me, baby, just stay with me. We’ll be alright, okay? We’ll be alright, you and me… We’ll be okay.”

“Love...” Bucky sighs, and something in his chest rattles. “...you.”

“I love you, too, Bucky…” And Steve kisses the back of his head, holds Bucky tighter.

He holds Bucky like he did that night when Bucky confessed everything that had happened to him, all of the fucking _villains_ in his life who had wounded him.

_“Bucky,” he says, his voice wavering frantically, “Buck, please look at me.”_

_Bucky lifts his gaze, his eyes empty and miserable. Steve swallows, raising his hand to touch Bucky’s cheek softly, brushing away a tear._

_“I love you,” Steve says fiercely, his voice cracking, “I love you more than anything. You’re not disgusting.” Steve swallows a sob and Bucky stares at him, skeptical and afraid. “Bucky you got hurt. How- how could you think that I’d leave after that?”_

_Bucky’s eyes shimmer with shame and exhaustion. “‘Cause now you know,” he says in a small voice, “that I’m pathetic and I- I let people do that-”_

_“You didn’t let people do anything,” Steve interrupts shakily. “It wasn’t- it wasn’t your fault, Bucky. None of it was your fault.” Bucky gazes stoically back at him, and then throws his arms around Steve’s neck, shoulders shaking with sobs again._

_“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met,” Steve mumbles against his neck. Bucky shakes his head, not lifting it from Steve’s shoulder. “Buck?” Bucky looks up with a gulp of air, his expression ruined._

_“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve murmurs firmly, running a hand over Bucky’s hair again. “Okay? I won’t—you’re not gonna get hurt again.”_

_Bucky exhales tearfully and slumps against Steve’s chest, half in his lap. “Thanks, Steve,” he says softly._

And sure, Steve broke his promise—Bucky was hurt again. So many fucking times that Steve was blinded by rage and couldn’t even function. He knows now that he can’t control the psychopathic, violent men of the world, only how he helps Bucky through it.

As long as Bucky’s hands are still warm, as long as Bucky’s heart still beats and even after, Steve will hold him, will cradle him close to his chest.

So even once Bucky stops responding, Steve keeps talking, about their future, about the love that he has for him, about the life they’ll live.

And all the while, he holds Bucky. 

And holds him.

And holds him.

  
  


* * *

_It’s a few days after Valentine’s Day when Bucky says it. They’re sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for their peanut butter cookies to finish baking, when Bucky tells Steve, “I need you like the earth needs the sun.”_

_“Baby,” Steve responds, with this sweet little laugh. “That’s a stupid metaphor.”_

_“Why?” Bucky asks, and when Steve gives him some bullshit answer about Bucky being as hot as the sun, he throws a handful of flour at him._

_“Fine,” moans Steve, “you crazy, crazy person. They’re in, like, a dependent relationship. The earth needs the sun, or the whole planet would be, like, a ball of rock and ice.”_

_Bucky shrugs and says, “Sounds about right.”_

_But Steve shakes his head and picks up Bucky’s hand, takes his fingers, and kisses the knuckle on his thumb. “But the sun doesn’t need the earth, Buck. If the earth imploded, the sun would just keep” —he kisses the next knuckle— “on going.” He kisses the next, and the next, and the next. “But that’s not us. I need you just as much as you need me. We’re like, um…” His forehead scrunches in thought, and when he thinks of it, his face lights up with that goofy smile. “We go together like peas and carrots,” he states, in his best Forrest Gump voice._

_Bucky laughs and rolls his eyes. “You’re an idiot. Peas don’t need carrots, and carrots don’t need peas.”_

_“Fine, fine,” grumbles Steve lightheartedly. “I’m not a goddamn poet, gimme a second, um… Like a seahorse, uh… Needs another seahorse?”_

_Bucky gives him this half-amused, half-bewildered smile. “What the hell?”_

_“They mate for life, Buck, that’s what I’m trying to say!”_

_“Yeah, and the male seahorse has all the babies, too—did you pay no attention at all to Mr. Richter’s class?”_

_“It was seventh grade, Bucky! I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast yesterday, let alone what that old man had to say about seahorses!”_

_By that time, their cookies are done, and while Bucky pulls them out of the oven with these dumb_ made with love and other shit _oven mitts that Nat got him for Christmas, Steve tries again. “Bert and Ernie?”_

_“No.”_

_“Jim and Pam?”_

_“No.”_

_“Romeo and Juliet?”_

_“God, I hope not,” Bucky laughs, picking up one of the cookies. “Ow!”_

_A chuckle. “They’re still hot, dumbass,” says Steve, taking Bucky’s hand and kissing his wounded fingers. “Don’t hurt yourself. I’d hate to see the next William Shakespeare lose all of his fingers over peanut butter cookies.”_

_Bucky scoffs, giggling as Steve licks the taste of peanut butter from his fingertips. “God, you’re gross. Didn’t you eat enough of the batter, greedy?”_

_Steve sighs, lets go of Bucky’s hand, and slides back into the stool behind him. “Peanut butter cookies,” he breathes, with that dopey, beautiful smile. “I love them more than you, Buck.”_

_“Doubt it,” Bucky says. “Peanut butter cookies don’t give kisses. Now, try again. We’ve gotta fix your metaphor skills. I can’t have my boyfriend going out into the world, calling us Bert and Ernie.”_

_Steve groans, “Fine,” drawing the word out into one long syllable. “Peanut butter and chocolate.”_

_“You’re just saying that because you’re hungry!”_

_Steve grins. “Guilty.”_

_Bucky finally snatches a cookie off of the rack, tossing it between his hands so it doesn’t burn him. “No kisses for you, then, you metaphorically challenged idiot.”_

_“Well, if you’re so great, Mr. I’m-A-Writer-So-I-Know-Everything, then you give it a try!”_

_“Fine!”_

_“Fine!”_

_Bucky smiles and takes a bite out of his cookie. “If we’re going with what you said” —Steve makes that little_ hmph _sound— “about us needing each other, then I think we’re like planets.”_

_“Planets?”_

_“Yep.” Bucky takes another bite. “Like, two planets that orbit around each other. So they need each other to stay in orbit. If one, um, explodes, then the other would just spiral into nothingness.”_

_“I don’t think two planets can orbit each other, Bu—hey!”_

_Bucky grins, laughing at the shocked, flour-covered expression on Steve’s face. “I’m a writer, not an astrologist or cosmologist or whatever the hell it is. Let me be wrong for like two seconds, please.”_

_And then Steve takes a big bite out of the half-eaten cookie in Bucky’s hand. “Fine, Stephen Hawking, as long as you give me the rest of these cookies.”_

_“Never,” says Bucky, snatching another from the tray. “They’re all mine.”_

_And later, as they’re on the couch, with_ The Pursuit of Happyness _playing softly in the background, they kiss the peanut butter off of each other’s lips, and Bucky kisses Steve so hard that the flour he threw on him is on him, too._

_But it’s so, completely, utterly worth it._


	5. wakened, i hold you (in my arms)

Carol’s patrolling Brock’s apartment when she gets the call. 

It’s Tony Stark.

She’s never met the CEO of Stark Industries, but she does know that he’s a nonchalant, borderline narcissistic individual with too much money than he can handle. She’s never heard him take anything seriously. 

The Tony Stark she knows is nothing like the one she meets on the phone at nine fifty-seven at night.

Stark’s making these strange, gasping noises, and there’s a woman’s voice somewhere farther away, trying to calm down; he’s rushing, panicking, trying to explain something and then Carol hears the word  _ Steve  _ and she stops him. “Slow down—Stark, slow the hell down—what happened?”

And he’s gasping again, heaving and panting and all the while trying to talk, too, and he just can’t get the words out, but Carol hears the words  _ Bucky  _ and  _ at home _ —she covers the phone with her hand, snaps, “Fury,  _ drive _ ,” and they go.

Carol gets there before the paramedics do; she was only a few blocks away, and the ambulances are trying to wind through a massive pileup, so she’s the first to arrive on the scene, busting through the front door with her gun raised and Fury on her tail. Her backup’s still coming up the block, a few minutes behind, but she goes in anyway.

There’s too much blood.

It’s everywhere.

It’s on the floor, on the kitchen counter, on a half-torn pair of pants in the hallway… 

They move carefully but quickly, room by room, following the trail of blood to the second bedroom, where they find— _ fuck _ —a man whose face is so bloodied that at first it’s difficult to recognize him, but Carol’s stared at his picture so many times that she  _ knows _ . It’s Brock Rumlow, and he’s completely unconscious, blood dripping into a puddle around his head. 

The ambulances are already on their way, but she announces it into her walkie-talkie anyway: “Suspect down, significant head trauma, unconscious.” She nudges him with her foot, and Rumlow groans, shifting. She then motions at Fury— _ stay with him _ —and moves into the hallway towards the bathroom. Where the hell are Steve and Bucky?

And when she opens the door, she finds them. 

At first, Carol thinks they’re dead, and shock washes over her anxious heart. 

They’re curled up in the bathtub together, Bucky slumped on top of Steve, Steve’s arms curled protectively around him, both their eyes closed, impossibly still. Their tangled limbs, the blood pooling around them… Carol doesn’t know where one ends and the other begins. 

It happens too often, finding couples like this: double suicide, double homicide, love bleeding into hate bleeding into death. And with the way Steve’s been the past few weeks (so on edge that he’s practically neurotic) and the way Bucky’s been the past few days, it wouldn’t be a surprise. And with Rumlow still alive in the other room… Their chances aren’t good.

But then she sees Steve’s chest moving, his lips moving, just barely, then she feels the quiver of a heartbeat beneath her fingers against Bucky’s bruised-purple neck.  _ They’re alive.  _ She screams it into the walkie-talkie: they’re alive, they’re alive, Bucky and Steve, Steve and Bucky,  _ they’re fucking alive _ . 

_ Carol and Bucky hate golf with a vicious, burning passion. “It’s minigolf,” Steve reminds her when she says it out loud, with this funny grin. “ _ Way  _ different.” _

_ “This is all your fault,” she says, glaring at Bucky. “You put the idea in his head—” _

_ “It was a joke!” he protests. “I didn’t think he’d actually want to go!” _

_ “I’m a minigolf extraordinaire, baby,” Steve says, sneaking a kiss to his cheek. “Of course I’d want to go.” _

_ Bucky rolls his eyes as Steve grabs his putter. “Just because your scrawny ass couldn’t play a single sport in high school doesn’t mean you have to make the rest of us suffer.” _

_ Steve wiggles a little as he readies his club, getting a few practice swings in. “You’re just jealous that you’re not in the group chat,” he replies, with this amused, infuriating smile.  _

_ Bucky groans. “No one wants to be in” —Steve and Maria high-five, laughing maniacally— “a group chat called Was A Scrawny Ass, Now A Hot Ass!” _

_ “You guys are idiots,” Carol agrees, sitting down on the side with Bucky. “You and Scott and Maria.” _

_ “Hey!” Maria knocks her wife’s leg with her putter. _

_ “Just because Bucky and I have been unbelievably athletic—” _

_ “And gorgeous,” Bucky interjects, bumping her shoulder with his. “And athletic. And goddamn amazing.” _

_ Carol nods. “—and gorgeous and athletic and goddamn amazing our whole lives, doesn’t mean you have to make the rest of us sit through your idiotic kid’s game! We can’t help that we’ve been knockouts our whole lives—” _

_ “Not a kid’s game,” says Maria. “It’s a sport.” _

_ Carol snorts in amusement just as Bucky swings his putter, and he clips the golf ball with the end, sending it knocking into one of the obstacles and bouncing back at him. “Fuck minigolf!” groans Bucky, and Maria keels over with laughter. _

_ “Anything that has to be glow-in-the-dark,” Carol growls, “to sell it is  _ not  _ a real sport! This is not a” —she tosses her putter to the side— “sport!” _

_ “She’s right,” Bucky chimes in. “This is the worst goddamn double date in my entire life—” _

_ Steve scoffs. “Buck, you cannot  _ tell  _ me laser tag is not a sport—” _

_ “It’s not!” _

_ “Glow in the dark,” Carol reminds Steve, as Bucky smacks his putter against the fake bricks edging the green. “Rule number one.” _

_ By now, it’s Maria’s turn, and she’s taken like forty goddamn practice swings, just to infuriate Carol, and Bucky starts literally screeching at the sky in frustration. “Would you just take your shot already?” Carol complains. “You’re taking a whole hour just to aim for the hole—” _

_ “Talent takes time,” Maria says, smirking as she takes another practice swing. “Be patient, baby.” _

_ Carol and Bucky groan together from the sidelines, Carol sprawling over the side of the green in boredom as Bucky chants, “God, please, take me now, please, please, let the sweet mercy of death come to me…” _

_ Carol’s scoffing, “Goddamn scrawny asses, their goddamn scrawny sports—” _

_ An obnoxious cheer cuts through their complaining: “Hole in one!” _

_ It’s Maria’s shot, and she and Steve high-five again. “Team Scrawny Ass wins again!” laughs Steve, doing a little victory dance. _

_ Bucky takes Steve’s putter and chucks it—“Fuck minigolf!”—into the lake, and then slings his arm around Carol’s shoulder; now they’re the ones cackling maniacally, shouting, “Team Hot Ass for life!” until they’re back in the parking lot. _

The paramedics come moments later, urging her aside and crowding around the bloodstained bathtub.

It’s poetic, in this horrible, sickening way, that makes nausea writhe in her stomach, rise in her throat. —someone’s saying her name:  _ Danvers, Danvers, _ “Danvers!” 

She jerks her head up. It’s  _ Fury _ , and he’s looking at her with this muddled, one-eyed expression that she can’t quite read _.  _ “You’re shaking,” he says, taking her by the elbow. “Come on.”

He’s guiding her out of the bathroom, out of the apartment, but she doesn’t want to  _ leave.  _ “They’re alive,” she repeats, in this gooey, echoing voice that she can barely hear herself, and she trips over the carpet in Steve and Bucky’s hallway. “They’re alive, Fury,  _ Nick _ , they’re  _ alive _ —” She can still see their bodies curled up into one each other, painted red, bruised and bloody and half-dead, and now she’s shaking her head again. “We played—we did minigolf, goddamn minigolf, that stupid fucking game…”

And now Fury’s concerned, repeating her words ( _ minigolf? Carol, are you okay? _ ) but she can’t even listen to him. The sound of death, of eerie silence whines in her ears. He leads her into the hallway, down the stairs, where three ambulances—their red lights flickering—lie in wait. He’s talking to them, these confused, little phrases, and eventually she finds a shock blanket around her shoulders, like she’s a goddamn victim or something. “No, no,” she refuses, “I don’t want it. I want to—I want—” She wants  _ Maria _ , that’s what she wants, and she wants to play minigolf again, just to see the bright and infuriating happiness on Steve’s face, to see that carefree, unbruised, fucking  _ alive  _ expression on Bucky’s. 

“Sit down,” Nick Fury says, like he’s reading her mind. “I’m calling your wife.”

So she sits.

And she waits. 

And sometime after that, they take away Steve and Bucky on these screeching stretchers, Bucky completely lifeless and Steve… Steve bucking against the paramedics and crying for Bucky, trying to reach him, until finally they sedate him just to keep him still. 

And eventually, Maria comes, with her warm eyes and her soft smile. 

Her hair is up in this fluffy, messy bun. She’s still wearing an apron, splashed with something green—pesto, maybe? There’s something else, too, when Maria embraces her, folding her into her arms, something sweet, like vanilla or cinnamon. “Nutmeg,” she decides finally, her hands on her wife’s face, “right?”

Then she starts crying, crying, crying, and she can’t stop. 

But Maria stays, and she cries, too, and they just hold each other. 

Steve wakes up with a headache so massive it’s splitting his skull—and all of a sudden it shrinks, fading a little, as his eyes start to adjust. He’s blinking back a haze of confusion, pain rippling over his skull, and his body feels heavy, swollen, like he’s made of rubber. It takes so much effort to just move his eyes—everything  _ hurts _ ; how the hell did he get here?

He tries to move around, but his brain is wet clay, squishing between his thoughts before he can grasp it. It’s so hard to detect where everything is, where it hurts, his skin tight over his bruised body like a drum. He licks his chapped lips, shifting a little in his discomfort, and this little moan escapes him. 

Now, there’s a voice coming from beside him, feet shuffling over tile: “Steve?”

He can’t tell where it’s coming from—his brain is blurry, thoughts blizzarding from one side to another, and then—

“On your left.” 

That voice. It’s  _ Sam.  _ Steve moves his head to find it and immediately regrets it, pain layering over pain, blood pumping past his ears. 

A hand stills his movement, moving soothingly over his shoulder. “Yeah,” continues Sam, “I’d stay still if I were you, Rogers. You did some shit to your head.”

“What…” He strains to look down without jostling his head too much. His knuckles are swollen, battered with cuts, his whole face is puffy, and his body  _ aches  _ like he’s been through an MMA fight. “...happened.”

“You don’t…” Sam looks like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Shit.” He rubs his hand over his head. “Uh… Fuck, I can’t…” He shakes his head. “What, um—how much do you remember?”

Steve’s brain is a sticky mess. “Of what?”

“Of… Shit.” He looks, nervously, at the door. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What?” What was so wrong, what could make Sam look like he’d just been through a  _ war _ ?

His friend takes a step back. “What’s the, um, last thing you remember?”

The last thing… “I don’t know…” His voice is hoarse. “I don’t know.”

“What do you remember,” says Sam, even softer, “about Bucky?”

_ Bucky.  _ Right now, his brain can’t do much more than clench in pain, but he tries—

_ —a brutal scream. Glass hitting the floor. _

_ “BUCKY!” Steve jerks the doorknob, his voice panicky and high, pounding on the door with a clenched fist— “Bucky, baby,  _ please _ , it’s me, just  _ me _ , open the door,  _ please, goddamn it, OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR! _ ” _ —

— _ “Us being physical shouldn’t be something you have to survive, baby. It should be something you  _ want _.” _ —

— _ “You’re getting thinner,” he says, concern drifting across his face. “As long as you promise to eat  _ _ something.” _ —

— _ “He told me he’d talk to you, I don’t understand… Bucky wouldn’t lie to me about this.”— _

_ —Steve bites his lip, teary-eyed. “I’m never gonna make you do anything you don’t want to, baby, I never—I don’t wanna make you feel like—god, fuck—” He scrubs a shaky hand over his face, holding back a sob. “Buck—I can’t—I don’t know what to do, but Jennifer, she knows, goddamnit, she can help—” _

—and Steve frowns, confused. “There’s something wrong...with Bucky. But I don’t know…” He blinks, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again as if that’ll clear his foggy mind. “What happened? Where’s Bucky?”

“Bucky…” Sam sighs, this exhausted sound. “He said you wouldn’t…” He’s in front of Steve’s hospital bed. “That you might have some memory  _ trouble _ , but hell…”

“Sam,” Steve says, getting his attention again. “ _ Sam _ . Please. I can take it.”

Sam gives him this long, hard look. He pulls up a chair, decides against it, shoves it back, and then sits at the end of Steve’s hospital bed. He looks tired, Steve notices, like he’s gone a week without a good night’s sleep. “Back in, um, like, June, you called me to your house. Said it was an emergency.”

None of this feels familiar.

Sam continues, “I came over, and Wanda was there, too. You told me Bucky… You found bruises all over him. Handprints and shit. Like someone had… You know.” Memories peel away from the front of his skull.

_ “Buck, baby, please, tell us.” Tears quiver in his eyes. “I can’t—I don’t understand why—did someone—why—why did you keep this from me?” _

“...you said you’d known for a while, that there was something wrong, because he kept… His symptoms were getting worse, he kept having, um, relapses? And then a few days ago—Friday? He left, said he was going to Wanda’s, but he wasn’t, and no one knew where he was…”

_ “—and he sent me a text—b-but—I texted him this morning, he didn’t respond, I’ve tried so many times—I know something bad happened, I can just feel it, I just know, he was acting different yesterday, like—like the world was gonna fucking end or something—” _

“...and then you found out, um…” Sam winces. “Rumlow took him...”

_ Steve shudders. Bucky… He’s missing because of  _ Brock fucking Rumlow _? Unshakable, overwhelming terror wracks his mind, and he squeezes his eyes shut—fuck, _ fuck _ , no—god, he can’t breathe, can’t imagine what Brock’s doing to Bucky, can’t imagine that Brock’s been leaving bruises on Bucky’s skin for fucking  _ months _ — _

“...went after him, he shot a kid, he beat you up pretty bad, but, um, the doc said head trauma can get pretty bad, make you think you’re okay…”

_ Pain splits through his head; he turns with the gun in hand, but there’s already large hands squeezing around his neck, shoving him to the ground. He’s too light-headed; everything feels watery and shallow, and when Rumlow knocks the gun out of his hands, his fingers realize just a  _ second _ too late that their chance of winning this fight is  _ gone _.  _

“...and I don’t know exactly what happened, they only tell me so much, but, um… Rumlow took Bucky back to your place? And, like… Fuck. He, um, stabbed him. Bucky called you while you were at Tony’s? And the doctor there hadn’t gotten a full look at you, just knew your head was really fucked up, but you went anyway, and… I don’t know. He said something about messing with skull fractures or something. And you stayed with Bucky until the police came…”

_ “And we’ll bake cookies, Buck, all the cookies you could ever want. And we’ll give them to all our friends, Nat and Peggy and Sam and Wanda… Bucky, it’ll be so goddamn beautiful, just...” And he’s crying now, tears spilling down his cheeks, so fast that he couldn’t stop them if he wanted to. “Just stay with me, baby, just stay with me. We’ll be alright, okay? We’ll be alright, you and me… We’ll be okay.” _

“...but those people… They fucked up Bucky pretty bad, Steve, um…”

The memories come flooding back, like a broken dam, in enough shattered pieces that Steve  _ remembers _ . “He… Oh, god. Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”

“He’s” —Sam looks at the door again— “still in surgery. It was a pretty bad stab wound, and there was some other stuff… Fuck. Dr. Njordsen, that’s Bucky’s doctor, she can explain.”

“Explain… How bad is it, Sam?”

Sam doesn’t say anything, just wrings his hands a little.

“Sam, how  _ bad _ ?”

Sam swallows. “They told me… The doctor, she said, um, he’s got a thirty percent chance of making it through the surgery… After that, they don’t know…”

Steve closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Steve. I’m so, so sorry.” And he repeats it as he edges toward the door, guilty. “I’m sorry.”

Maria tries to convince Carol to take a few days off, but Carol can’t. She just can’t. 

The following morning, she goes back to the station. After assuring Fury time and time again that she’s fine, he lets her back on the case.

Their first order of business: figure out what to do with Pietro, the boy they found in Johann Schmidt’s bed. 

Last night he was moved to a group home, just a temporary spot, but Carol knows he needs more than that. He needs what Bucky has: people who love him, support, therapy, and a steady, normal life. 

But no one wants a teenager. Especially one who has called a prostitution ring home for half of his life.

And Carol calls family after family, asking them if there’s any possibility, but all of them give a firm  _ no _ . 

So she calls her last resort, and finally it works.

“I don’t know if I’d be the best parent,” Tony says, with Pepper on speaker, too. “Starks aren’t really...parent material.”

Pepper laughs a little. “Oh, shut up, honey. You’re the best. We’ll take him, Carol.”

Carol fiddles with the phone. “I’m not looking for a temporary placement, you know that, right? This is supposed to be a permanent home. His social worker didn’t even try to find permanent homes after learning about his past.”

“We know,” says Pepper, and she stops for a moment, gathers herself. “Tony and I… We’ve been trying to have kids for a while now. Maybe it’s just not meant to be—and we were just talking about adoption, foster care, a few days ago.”

“With the kind of resources we have,” adds Tony, “it’d be cruel of us not to use them to help someone.”

“This isn’t like donating money to charity,” says Carol. “This is a lifelong commitment. This is a commitment from one day to the next, forever, that you’re gonna love and support this kid, no matter what.”

“We know,” repeats Pepper, “and we will.”

“He’s a good kid,” Carol assures them, “just scared. He’s been through a lot. It won’t be easy.”

“I didn’t think it would be,” says Tony. “But… We’re the best chance he has.” A chuckle. “And sure, we were thinking about adopting a baby, not a fifteen-year-old, but they all do the same stuff, right? Eat, cry, shit, sleep?”

“Tony,” Pepper warns.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Carol runs a hand through her hair. “It can’t all be heavy, you know? Treat him like a kid, not a therapy project. He hasn’t had a chance to be a kid in years—he was orphaned in Sokovia, lost his sister to the war there, and then dropped off the radar at eight years old when Schmidt’s people got ahold of him.” She sighs. “Make him laugh. Make him feel safe. Make him feel loved.”

“We will,” they say together.

Carol bites her lip. “Okay. I’ll email you the paperwork.”

The doctor’s name is Dr. Ho Yinsen, as he explains, and he has a limp, just a slight one, and a cane decorated in My Little Pony stickers. “I’m the head neurologist here at Mount Sinai Hospital,” he announces, shuffling closer to Steve’s bedside. “I performed the surgery that repaired your skull.”

Steve blinks. “I thought I had a concussion—that’s what the other one, the one at Tony’s, told me.”

Dr. Yinsen nods. “Dr. Banner,” he clarifies, “based his diagnosis on just seeing you—he took into account the shock of the trauma you had recently experienced and dismissed several symptoms of skull fracture and brain injury that he observed as simply your reaction to the event.”

“So I…” Steve says, but he doesn’t know how to finish. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Yinsen answers, “that you suffered a traumatic brain injury. Several, in fact.” He holds up his clipboard, which displays a scan of a brain. “This is a scan of your brain when you came into the ER last night. That back there” —he taps at the back of the skull in the picture— “is a depressed skull fracture; see the indent?” He’s right. Instead of a perfect skull, near the back there’s a cracked spot, like someone slammed the back of his head with something— _a_ _knife_ , he remembers—and there’s fractures around it, like someone had crashed the indent into a flat surface, over and over and over again. A piece of skull floats towards the center. “That part there? That’s the parietal lobe.”

“What’s that?” Steve forgot that Sam’s there still, pacing back and forth like a wildcat; he’s tense, writing down everything the doctor says into this little notebook. 

Yinsen glances at Sam, like he forgot, too. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait till your parents get here?”

“No parents,” Steve snaps, and pain flares in the back of his head. 

“Okay, well, family?”

“Sam’s my family.” He lifts his hand, gesturing at Sam. “Keep going.”

Dr. Yinsen clears his throat. “Well, the parietal lobe is the part of your brain that helps you with language processing and sensory processing—reading, writing, touch, temperature, pain—things of that nature. And from our scans, there’s some clear damage to that area of the brain that may cause some...unpleasant side effects.”

“Side effects?” echoes a female voice from behind Yinsen. It’s Wanda, and she looks like she’s been through hell and back. She’s not wearing makeup, which is unusual for her, and her long, red hair is tied back into this messy half-bun. 

Yinsen opens his mouth to tell her something—to leave, most likely—but Steve croaks, “No. She’s family, too.”

The doctor gives this tired sigh and finally starts talking again. “Side effects of parietal lobe damage... They vary. The nurses, they’re going to run a few tests, see what the brain damage levels out to.”

So they run their tests, as Sam and Wanda pace relentlessly around the room. They poke and prod Steve’s extremities, asking him how this feels and how that feels and which is on the goddamn right and left until Steve’s fingers are tingling. They test his hand-eye coordination, his balance, his writing, his reading, his goddamn multiplication tables…

Until finally, they’re done, and the two nurses help him back into the bed to rest.

Sam’s saying something to him, but he’s having a hard time registering anything but the fact that Bucky’s in surgery. He remembers it all, now, in these strange, moving pieces and flashes of dulled color.

_ A ragged, despondent sigh that sounds too goddamn much like Steve’s name:  _ Steve _. “I did—didn’t mean… Before… The roof… Wa-wanted to tell you…” The crying, the crying, and Steve’s breaking apart. “...I l- _ love _ you.” _

He wants to tell Bucky  _ I love you _ and  _ it’s okay  _ and  _ I’m sorry _ over and over and over again, until the words imprint in the hardening, wounded cement of Bucky’s brain. 

Nothing else matters but Bucky.

Nothing has ever mattered as much as Bucky.

“Steve!” It’s Dr. Yinsen, and he’s looking, concerned, at him. “Are you listening?”

_ And Bucky moves again, stirring a little, and the terror in Steve’s chest dwindles. “Keep listening, baby, please, are you listening?” _

_ Bucky:  _ mm-hmm _ , and his fingers still. _

Steve’s throbbing fingers clench around the sides of the bed. “Where’s Bucky—I have to—have to see—Bucky, I—he’s not—” He can’t breathe, he can’t  _ breathe _ , but he keeps going, trying to sit up, moving his legs, flailing at Sam as he tries to stop him. Pain bellows, screeches in his head. “Have to—have to see him—Bucky—he can’t—I have—to see him—”

“Steve, you have to calm down,” states the doctor. “Lie back, lie down.” The nurse and Sam are pushing him back, keeping him still, and the other nurse is fiddling with his IV. “Movement, pressure—none of that is good for your head right now.”

There’s this  _ thing  _ around his neck, thick and heavy and constricting, and he claws at it, sucking down air in these sporadic bursts that he can scarcely control. “Don’t—Steve, no, don’t touch that, be still, be  _ still— _ ”

He doesn’t remember a lot of that. The day goes by in these panicky pieces, followed by heavy sedation. Sam  tells him, later, that he was screaming, “I  _ need  _ him, I  _ need  _ him!” so loudly that nurses from other rooms came running.

“It’s a combination of everything,” Dr. Yinsen explains. “The trauma, the brain damage, Barnes’ medical state… It’s too much, too fast.”

They don’t let anyone else come to see Steve; not Henry, not Jennifer, not Nat, not Peggy…

It doesn’t get better. The stabbing headaches, the disorientation, the worrying about Bucky to the point that his headaches worsen. He’s only allowed to eat soft foods, like jello and oatmeal, right now, because he’s got a couple jaw fractures and stitches lining his face, pain throbbing through his mouth that keeps him from eating almost anything.

That night, he dreams of Bucky—the Bucky he didn’t see, the one who was covered in blood and terrified, cowering beneath Rumlow’s fists.

And he wakes up screaming Bucky’s name.

On the second day, they let Steve out of bed. “He’s doing great,” says Wanda, with a hand on Steve’s back. He’s clinging to her arm, his other arm grasping a nurse’s forearm, stumbling from one step to the next, making his way around the room. “His doctor says he’s doing really, really great. He’s a fighter.”

Steve takes another step— _ shit, wrong foot _ —and trips over nothing, staggering, his brain hiccuping; Wanda and the nurse catch him, helping him back up. “I want to see him.”

Wanda’s a chipped mug, her face cracked. “He’s really fragile right now, Steve. They won’t let anyone but the doctors in to see him.”

Steve steps again, this time with the right foot. “Please, Wanda.”

“I can bring in his doctor,” says the nurse beside him. “She can talk to you about your friend—”

“Bucky,” Steve snarls, his fist tightening in Wanda’s sweater.

“—Bucky,” says the nurse, his tone gentler. “She can update you on his condition.”

On the third day, Bucky’s doctor comes to visit him.

Sam and Wanda are there, too, as Dr. Yinsen comes in and out, checking on Steve every now and then. Bucky’s doctor is a middle-aged blonde woman, one with a soft face and this fond smile, her hair pulled back in a loose braid. “My name’s Dr. Frigga Njordsen,” she says. Although she has a strange name, there’s no hint of an accent. She walks like a mother, like someone who’s determined to protect and sworn to love. “I’m here to talk to you about Bucky.” She clears her throat, smiles, and sits down beside him. “I’ll start at the beginning.”

She talks about the records they received from the first hospital he was treated at, Brookdale Medical Center,  before Rumlow took him. He came in with a flail chest, which a Dr. Cho operated on successfully. “It’s what happens when you experience several rib fractures, and a section of the rib cage separates from the rest. It can be life-threatening, and without a proper recovery time, it can rebreak the repairs.” She shows him a scan of a ribcage. “When he came to us, the ribcage was broken again, several more ribs had fractured; we had to reinforce his ribs with titanium rib plating, just to keep them from damaging anything around it.” She sighs a little, nodding solemnly. “And the stab wound made that pretty difficult, but it’s better now. It hit his small intestines, and we had to go in and repair that, but the knife didn’t hit any major organs.”

“So he’s okay,” says Steve, scanning her expression for more.

“He’s stable,” clarifies Njordsen, “yes. But highly vulnerable. With everything else that happened to him… His body’s having a lot of trouble bouncing back. If it was just the ribs, or just the intestines, then I wouldn’t be as worried. But with everything…”

“Everything, what?” he asks. “Doctor, please, tell me…”

“It’s graphic,” she warns. “You might not want to hear—”

“Please.”

She gives him that sad, expectant smile. “Okay.”

So she tells him.

She talks about the broken ankle, about the bruise swelling like a handprint around it. She talks about the bruises, one on top of the other until Bucky’s skin is a patchwork quilt. She talks about the cut in his thigh, the bloody marks on his back and thighs, the infected lesions on his wrist and ankles. She talks about the fractured bones of his face and arm, the concussion, the scratches all over him. And all the while her voice grows quieter, quieter. She explains the worst of it in the gentlest voice she can manage, about lack of lubrication, tearing of tissue, about the roughness and the brutality and the horrific barbarity of it. She talks about a disease called chlamydia, one Steve vaguely remembers from high school health class. She talks about bruising and damage and stress and DNA and repeated trauma, so many words and so much hurt that Steve reels from it.

And when she’s done, she touches his arm gently, like that could heal everything Bucky went through.

Steve doesn’t say anything. Horror paints over his skin, flickers through his bones.

“I’m sorry,” she says, just like Sam did. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

And she goes.

And Steve stays.

Without Bucky.

Without Bucky.

Always without Bucky.

On the fourth day, they finally let him see Bucky.

“She said,” Wanda announces, quietly, “that you could come visit today.” She’s been oddly quiet since Dr. Njordsen came in, like her words sucked all the hope out of the room.

His brain stutters, stammers, fumbles with the clasp to his heart. “I…”

Wanda helps him back into his bed. “They said you should be the first—you’re the closest thing he has to family, anyway.”

So a couple hours later, when they’ve declared Bucky stable enough, they roll Steve into the ICU in a wheelchair.

It’s not like in the movies, with a vase of purple flowers beside the hospital bed and with an array of get-well cards.

The room’s barren (white walls, white floor, white ceiling, white bed), a shelf without books, a house without rooms, a gaze without love. The walls are blank stares, the kind a surgeon gets after a twelve-hour surgery, the kind Sam has when he paces outside Steve’s hospital room. The bed in the center, if he can call it that, is swamped in wires and machines, all of them streaming to one thing in the center:  _ Bucky. _

Once he sees him, he can’t pull his eyes away; he analyzes, annotates, reconfigures—it’s like he’s seeing him for the first time. And he realizes, suddenly, with this strange ache in his gut, that he thought, as he curled up in that bloody bathtub with Bucky, that that moment would be his last, even if he didn’t say it out loud. He thought that would be the last moment he would get to tell Bucky how much he loved him, how proud he was,  _ everything.  _ And now, seeing him, seeing him  _ alive _ , is…impossible, wonderful, heartbreaking, beautiful, pumping his heart so full of love that he swears it will break.

Steve lingers by the doorway, hesitant, like if he steps inside that Bucky will crumble into dust; his face is wet,  _ fuck,  _ when did he start crying? Dr. Njordsen presses a hand, light, against his shoulder. “Go on,” she says. “It’s okay.” She says something else, too,  _ medically induced coma _ and  _ stable _ , but Steve barely hears that.

Bucky’s his magnet, and he moves to him. The closer he gets, the more he sees: the machines beeping in rhythm with Bucky’s heart, the cast encasing Bucky’s ankle and his one arm, the endotracheal tube snaking between his lips, the darkened bruises over his exposed skin, the robotic hisses of the ventilator, the tube trailing from his nose, the mottled handprints, the clear lines running from his limbs, the numbers flashing over the screen beside him. Bucky’s swallowed in white: white bandages, white sheets, white neck brace, white casts, white pillows, white butterfly stitches, and white bed. It’s almost heavenly, in such contrast to his hellish circumstances that Steve swallows the lump of coal in his throat.

He’s gasping back a sob when he finally sits down beside Bucky and takes his hand. His face— _ god, that beautiful face _ —is so bruised and broken and swollen and bandaged that it’s hard to believe that it’s  _ him _ . His one good arm is trapped in a cast, but his fingers and thumb peek out. Emotions that Steve doesn’t even recognize flood through him, such pain and empathy and mutual fucking suffering that he’s crying all over again, sobbing, sobbing,..

He takes Bucky’s hand.

_ Steve’s too young to understand, that’s what the doctor keeps saying. _

_ And when Steve keeps asking why, why, why, his mother takes him by the hand and pulls him away. “It doesn’t matter why they took his arm,” she says quietly, firmly. “All that matters is you’re there for him, Steve. He’s your best friend, right?” _

_ Steve nods shakily, sniffling, wipes at his runny nose. “Y-yeah.” _

_ “Did you love him with two arms?” _

_ Steve hiccups. “Yeah.” _

_ “Then you’ll love him with one. He’s still your Bucky, Steve. He’s still there.” She kisses the top of his head. “And he needs you now, more than ever.” _

_ So the doctor, a woman with short, black hair, leads him into the hospital room, where Bucky is sleeping, his head tipped to the side. Steve’s eyes glance to the empty space where Bucky’s left arm used to be, and this tiny whimper escapes him .”Mama…” _

_ “I know, baby.” She gives him a gentle push. “It’s okay.” _

_ Beside Bucky’s bed, there’s a small chair; Steve clambers on top of it, but he’s so small, so he has to sit on his knees just to raise himself to where Bucky is. It’s like the whole world stops, just so he can whisper to Bucky, “Oh, Bucky….” And then he’s crying again, and his mom scoops him up even though he’s probably a little too old, and she hugs him. _

_ “Be strong for him,” she says, and he breathes in the smell of her perfume. “You can do this, Steve.” _

_ So she sets him back down on the chair. Steve takes in this tiny, shallow breath, and takes Bucky’s hand. _

_ His fingers interlace with Bucky’s, and this little shiver races down his back. Bucky gives this little moan, this small, hurting sound, and Steve’s stomach clenches. Bucky being in pain… This kind of deep, searing pain… Steve squeezes Bucky’s hand. _

_ He’ll stay with Bucky… _

_ “I’m with you,” he whispers, just like they said when he was seven and Bucky was six and they played over the train tracks, raced down them, giggling and tripping over the planks until Steve fell and scraped his knees so Bucky kissed it better, “to the end of the line.” _

For Steve, these have been the worst days of his life, of worrying about Bucky waking up and dealing with the symptoms of the nightmarish brain trauma he sustained, but Dr. Njordsen assures him that Bucky’s healing as well as can be expected. She catches him in Bucky’s room after visiting hours, just sitting and whispering to him, just being there with him, but she doesn’t mind.

People visit him and Bucky: Sam and Carol and Wanda and Maria and so many other people that somehow their visits all blur together. People who care and people who crave the attention and people who don’t matter to him at all. 

And it feels like hell.

According to Dr. Yinsen, Steve’s not allowed to read because of the strain it puts on his brain, so he listens to the Harry Potter series, the audiobook, whenever he’s not talking to Bucky or telling him how much he loves him or begging for him to wake up.

Bucky adores Harry Potter, more than Steve adores Leonid Afremov.  _ No one knows who the hell tbat is, Steve,  _ Bucky said once when Steve was fourteen and Bucky was thirteen, sprawled out on the roof of Steve’s apartment building.

_ He’s a god of color—  _ Steve started, visions of color and oil paints flooding his head.

_ He’s a god of color,  _ Bucky mocked, in his I’m-Steve-Rogers-and-I-know-everything voice.  _ I worship the ground he walks on— _

_ I don’t!  _ Steve protested, red in the face.  _ Just his style, the way he uses color to magnify— _

Bucky kept mocking him, in that stupid voice, until Steve shoved him in the chest.  _ Hey! _

_ You’re an idiot,  _ Steve said, laughing.  _ Shut up or I’ll tickle you. I will. _

_ I’m not ticklish,  _ replied Bucky, with that dumb, invincible grin, but he sat up anyway, scooting away from Steve.  _ I’m not ticklish.  _ And when Steve gave him that evil smile, he repeated it, his voice getting a little higher.  _ I’m not, I’m not! _

_ Sure, you’re not.  _ Then, Steve lunged.

Bucky dove out of the way, squealing.  _ I swear to God, Steve, don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t you dare!  _

And they ran and chased each other around the roof, screeching and laughing until old Mr. Dugan poked his massive head (and his more massive moustache) out his window and roared for them to shut the hell up or he’d come up there himself. 

And Steve still adores Afremov—it’s easy, love he can quantify into these steel, measured containers in his heart, packed into canvases and galleries and the three hundred dollars worth of color hanging in the living room. 

It’s  _ nothing  _ compared to the overwhelming tsunami of love he feels for Bucky every fucking day. 

A few days later, they pull Bucky from the medically induced coma. “He’s out of the woods now, Steve,” Dr. Njordsen explains. “It’ll take him a little bit, with his body still recovering, but he’ll wake up.”

So Steve stays by Bucky’s bedside, waiting.

He can barely sleep as it is, but now it’s worse; the insomnia, the worry that wracks him keeps him from falling asleep any more than a couple hours without waking up with a jolt, thinking of Bucky.

Today, Steve traces lines down the now-healed scratches in Bucky’s hand. They’re just lines now, lines that some fucker with a hundred bucks, Johann Schmidt’s phone number, and a sick shit-show of a brain, left on Bucky. 

He’s not crying, not right now; he’s  _ empty _ . 

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers. “I’m so goddamn sorry.” His head sinks into his hands; he wishes he could mash his sorrow between his fingers, smash it until it was a mess of blood and tears. He  _ failed  _ Bucky in the worst possible way—he let those perverted fucks back into his life, he didn’t see when Jennifer tried to ( _ right now he’s sitting in there, so terrified of you hurting him that he can barely talk _ ) tell him, when Wanda tried to ( _ if you spent more time paying attention to his fucking  _ well-being  _ instead of making paintings _ ) tell him, when Bucky tried to ( _ you know I can’t sleep anymore? It’s having you—you sleeping beside me, and I just get so fucking—so fucking  _ afraid) tell him, and he never  _ listened _ .

He’ll never get to take back that for weeks,  _ months _ , Bucky was being hurt, violently raped and abused, and he did  _ nothing _ .

He failed Bucky.

He fucking failed him.

Tony tells Steve, later, that the police got there as fast as they could, given the circumstances. 

Steve, sitting by Bucky’s bedside, tells Tony to go fuck himself, and goes back to listening to the audiobook with Bucky. They’re halfway through  _ The Chamber of Secrets _ , which isn’t Steve’s favorite, but the timeline would matter to Bucky, so he reads it to him anyway.

It’s been a week and a half since everything happened.

It’s the tenth day, and today, it happens just as Steve’s pausing the audiobook, rubbing his eyes to wheel over to the bathroom, and this frail, beautiful hand grabs his as he moves. “Steve?” Bucky croaks.

Steve’s never heard such a beautiful sound in his life.

He slumps forward, interlaces his fingers with Bucky’s, and sobs into the back of his hand.

Bucky falls asleep almost immediately after that, succumbing to exhaustion and pain, the word “Steve” the only thing he managed to muster up in days.

But it gives Steve hope. It gives everyone else hope. And little by little, recovery starts to sink in.

Everything  _ hurts _ .

It’s becoming an all-too-familiar feeling, of constant pain rippling over Bucky’s entire body, of stabbing pain here and aching pain there, of such suffering that he wanted to go back to sleep and never wake up. His body feels… _ curdled _ , somehow, like milk that’s been sitting out too long, like he’s thickened and thinned and melted in the heat of the sun.

He’s on a bed again—he’s always on a fucking bed, on a mattress, but it smells like chemicals and death and there’s something  _ going down his throat,  _ choking him, and he can’t fucking cough it up—every instinct in him goes berserk, wild with panic, and his arm is trapped in something, unable to move, and he’s thrashing and thrashing, he can  _ feel  _ someone’s in the room, and he knows they’re only there to fuck him again, but he can’t do it, not again,  _ god, please, he’d rather die, never again— _

—beeping pries at his ears, louder and louder, and his entire body is a washcloth, twisted and pulled and squeezed, wrenching every droplet out of him, and he can’t get it out, and all he knows is pain, fucking  _ pain _ , spillling over him and  _ yanking his hair back, hot lips against his neck, a German accent grunts, pants, finishes _ —

—a voice, a  _ male  _ voice, low and thick and  _ urgent _ , and something holding his arm down, so Bucky forces his swollen eyes open; he knows it’s him, it’s always  _ him _ , he’s here, he’s gonna get Bucky, take him back, tie him to that fucking bed—

—a woman’s voice this time, insistent: “Get me Steve Rogers.”

And Bucky loses himself, then, to the memories that smash into the front of his skull like bullets, spraying blood in front of his eyes:  _ hey sweetheart, you don’t fucking matter to him, you’re mine, get dressed, I’ll fuck you into a wall like I did last time, you fucking  _ whore _! _

And then there’s a voice, slow and soft and gentle, a flash of blonde light beside him. “I’m right here, Buck, it’s me, it’s Steve, I’m here, I’m here.”

And for a moment, everything seems to still; he  _ knows  _ that voice, that voice that coaxed him out of bed with waffles, but everything’s all  _ wrong _ —

—and then everything swells, wavers, one wave at a time of terrifying numbness, until at last he slips away again.

Pietro meets Pepper first, with her reassuring smile and her strawberry-blonde ponytail. “Come on in,” she says, and his social worker, a man who he doesn’t even know the name of, gives him a push. Pietro doesn’t have any belongings, only the clothes that Johann dressed him in, so he just swallows and steps through the door as he’s told. 

“I’m Pepper,” she says, announcing herself with sharp, clicking heels and a firm handshake. “You must be Pietro.”

Pietro nods, shakes, ducks his head.

“You’ll be fine,” says his social worker, and he has Pepper sign a few sheets of paper on a clipboard.

He nods. Pietro knows he’ll be fine. He’s always fine. He just doesn’t know how much.

He shuffles into the main room, where there’s bright, pinkish walls and a section of carpet to put his shoes. He knows how this works; it’s familiar, almost, like coming home, and he takes his shoes off, arranges them beside a set of purple dress shoes, and stands up again. 

His social worker gives him a hug, a one-two pat on the back. “Good luck, son,” he says, and Pietro nods again.

Once he’s gone, Pepper looks embarrassed, almost awkward for a woman dressed like she’s going to meet the president. “Can I get you—do you want something to eat?”

Pietro shakes his head.

“You must be hungry,” she insists. “We’ve got everything—what do you like?”

Already, he feels like he’s thrown out into open sea, left to flail and struggle on his own. He pushes it down. Usually, they tell  _ him  _ what to do; they never ask what he wants. 

His stomach growls— _ shit _ , he thinks, and he looks down. 

Pepper smiles, points him into the kitchen. “Why don’t you go sit down? I’ll fix you something.”

Pietro moves into the kitchen, careful, and sits down at the table, which is spotless. He knows how to do this—he knows how to listen. He looks around their apartment; it’s pristine, so clean that Pietro feels uncomfortable. He’s watching Pepper out of the corner of his vision, tracking her every move.

“It’s not” —Pietro looks away, folding his hands in his lap— “usually this clean,” says Pepper. “We just wanted it to look nice for when you came; I didn’t want you to walk in and find Tony’s shoes all over the place.” She chuckles, softly, to herself, and Pietro tries to mimic her, giving her a smile. It’s always strange, learning what he has to do to make people comfortable, learning how to keep out of their way, how to make sure he doesn’t upset them.

Pepper makes him a grilled cheese, something that smells ten times as delicious because his stomach is trying to eat itself. “I hope you’re not lactose intolerant,” she says, putting it on a plate. “You want chips?”

Pietro shakes his head and takes the sandwich, turning around so she can’t see him; as soon as he takes a bite, he’s gone. He devours it so fast that as soon as he’s done, his face flushes red. Before he can tell her not to, she’s made three more sandwiches and stacked them onto his plate. He gulps them down guiltily, in small, quick movements, taking them from the plate one at a time, gauging Pepper’s reaction.

He hates how formal she is, how clean and open she is. He needs her to  _ react _ , needs to see if what he’s doing is right or wrong, but all he gets are these polite smiles. He breathes out slowly, through his teeth. Honestly, it’s not Pepper he’s worried about. It’s the other one:  _ Tony _ . Once Pepper explains that he’ll be home in a few minutes—traffic was worse than expected—Pietro immediately straightens his back. What will he be like? He has experienced all kinds of men, aggressive to gentle, loud to quiet, volatile to calm… They all want the same thing. 

He just has to figure out what this man named Tony wants.

Wanda tries three times to set up an appointment with Dr. Njordsen, but, as she says, she’s a busy woman.

Good thing Wanda’s a stubborn woman, because she follows Dr. Njordsen out of the hospital, into the parking garage, and demands, “I need to talk to you about Bucky.” As Dr. Njordsen approaches her car, Wanda speeds up, moving between the Jeep and the doctor. “Please.”

Njordsen sighs, her shoulders dropping, and gives her a pointed look. “I’ve told you all I can about Bucky. I just want to go home, Miss Maximoff; I’ve been working for sixteen hours. I’d like to see my kids—”

“But I need,” Wanda interjects, “you to change Bucky’s nurses. He keeps panicking whenever he wakes up, you have to  _ do  _ something—”

“I’m well-aware of his panic attacks,” she says sternly. “I upped his sedation, so he won’t have another one when he wakes up.”

Wanda shakes his head. “No, no, that’s not what I mean.”

“You think I shouldn’t?”

“I think you’re not addressing the problem,” says Wanda, gesturing wildly with her hands.

“The problem is the panic attacks, Miss Maximoff. The problem is the trauma.”

“No, it’s not.” Dr. Njordsen folds her arms, and Wanda clears her throat, nervous at the spiral of attention the doctor is giving her. “It’s the nurses, doctor. Bucky’s nurses are male. He’s already disoriented, waking up in the ICU with that thing down his throat—”

“An endotracheal tube,” the woman clarifies.

“—and because it’s fucking  _ scary _ , waking up after going through all that, but then he finds himself in a bed? With a guy he doesn’t know standing above him?” Wanda wrings her hands. “He freaks out. I know him; I can see it. He thinks someone—that the nurse’s gonna—you know.”

Dr. Njordsen’s face seems to soften.

Hope rises in Wanda’s chest, and she takes a step closer to the woman. “I know your hospital’s busy, and I know you’re busy, but  _ please, please _ change Bucky’s nurses to women. He can’t take it, not right now.”

“Okay, Miss Maximoff,” says the doctor, “I’ll do it.”

Bucky wakes up in these ragged spurts of life, under such heavy sedation that he can’t even raise his arms. This time, he feels abnormally calm, his mind soothed by whatever’s slipping into his veins, and he blinks. This time, he’s not choking down a tube—he’s choking down confusion, instead, because someone beside him smells like powdered sugar and lavender and vanilla, like late-night waffles and good-morning kisses, and when he peels open his eyes, it’s like he’s seeing him for the first time, like that night when Steve pulled him out of the alley, when he took him home and made him feel  _ safe _ , and the memories flood him.

He betrayed that Steve. 

He took that love and fucked it up,  _ bad. _

So when his eyes refocus onto the beautiful man sitting at his bedside, guilt sinks in his chest like a stone, and memories of blood and terror and hot-knife hands accompany it, sharp edges poking deep in his brain. “Steve,” he croaks, his voice crackly and broken and desperate. But his voice must be barely a whisper, because Steve doesn’t look up. He’s hunched over near the end of Bucky’s bed, head bowed, overly concentrated on muttering something, his hands folded like in… Like in  _ prayer. _

Steve Rogers is  _ praying. _

And Bucky remembers, way in the back of his head in these memories he hasn’t touched in  _ years _ , that their  families were both Catholic. The kind of Catholic that made you disown your homosexual son or send your kid to conversion camp. 

And he’s reciting the Hail Mary, words Bucky hasn’t breathed since he left that fucking camp, and there’s something about it that’s rhythmic, almost musical, because it’s laced with love and desperation and grief instead of hate and disgust. He’s  _ hurt _ , Bucky realizes, so he says his name again: “ _ Steve _ .”

This time, Steve looks up, eyes raw and fucking  _ broken.  _ It’s like every bone in his body melts upon seeing Bucky’s eyes open, hope and love bubbling over his face. He doesn’t walk over to Bucky’s bed, though; he  _ wheels _ down the right side in this dark gray wheelchair, the wheels whining. He looks like  _ shit _ , with bruises blossoming over his freckled skin, tape stretched over the bridge of his nose and across his split knuckles. He’s got one of those collars around his neck, one that keeps his head in this stiff, awkward position—

—but none of it matters, because as soon as Steve is close enough to touch, Bucky reaches out, moving his cast-bound arm, stretching towards Steve as much as his injuries can allow him. Pain stretches over him like a net, tightening around him until he’s struggling for breath. He says his name again ( _ Steve, Steve, wonderful, beautiful Steve _ ), but it’s more of a sigh of relief than anything—relief at not seeing a stranger or Jack Rollins or Johann Schmidt or Brock Rumlow standing over him, but the man he loves more than life itself. 

Steve presses a bandaged hand against his mouth, stopping a sob halfway up his throat. “Bucky,” he chokes out, and it’s been so long since Bucky’s heard his name, his  _ real  _ name, that it’s like a breath of fresh air. 

Tears spill down Bucky’s cheeks—he doesn’t know where they’re coming from, but they keep coming, keep pouring from him, a broken dam, an outpouring of everything he’s suffered in the past few days, in the past few months… “I-I’m so—sorry,” he gasps, and discomfort prickles through his abused ribs.

Steve shakes his head through his tears, and, without hesitation, repeats what he always says: “Baby, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” His voice is tinged with red-ringed hysteria, like liquid trauma poured down his throat instead of honey. 

Instead of waiting for Steve to ask ( _ can I touch you? Is this okay? _ ), Bucky inches his hand to Steve’s. Before, he didn’t have it—the comfort, the support, the  _ love _ —and he knows he still doesn’t deserve it, but Bucky knows he’s fucking  _ selfish _ . He takes it, takes Steve’s hand and  _ squeezes _ . And he tries, but he’s too tired to say another word, so he traces his fingers over Steve’s good hand instead, drawing a shaky heart over his palm.

Bucky knows that Steve’s gonna make him pay for all the shit he did later—in whatever fucked-up way is next for him—but right now, he ignored all the consequences. Right now, he holds Steve’s hand and listens to him sob, “Bucky, god—oh, g-god—I thought—I thought I-I lost you—y-you—” 

And he’s crying and Bucky’s crying and then he can’t stop himself— “Steve...” he croaks, and then he’s coughing and wheezing and trying to get it out; the machines start beeping like crazy, and a figure rushes into the room—

_ —Rumlow taps the gun with his forefinger, once, twice, then slides his hand over it like he’s caressing it. “Been looking all over for you.” His breath is raspy, panicky, but his throat refuses to scream— _

_ — _ and Bucky  _ freaks _ , because he knew it, he fucking  _ knew  _ that he’d come back, he was never safe, he’s so  _ stupid— _ how could he think for a  _ second _ that he’d be safe here? He doesn’t scream, doesn’t fight, just coils his entire body into a tight ball of fear, whimpering quietly.

And he draws back and forth into his head, trying to numb himself to the fear, but then he hears it—that gentle chant that Steve does, the one that used to pull him out of nightmares and sweat-soaked terror. “You’re Bucky Barnes, you’re at Mount Sinai Hospital, you’re safe here. You’re with me, you’re with Steve, and you’re gonna be okay.” And he repeats it, over and over and over, as the person—a  _ nurse,  _ Bucky realizes now, with a slightly pregnant belly and a head full of soft, brown dreadlocks. A  _ woman _ , he recognizes, and he relaxes a little. She can’t be here for...for  _ him.  _ She’s wearing light blue scrubs, almost the color of Steve’s eyes, and she has backed slowly out of the room, hands raised.

Bucky’s head spins, whirs and grinds, the gears uncomfortably hot. “She… I…”

“She’s not here to hurt you,” Steve assures him, “I promise.” 

He’s still doing that  _ thing  _ with his voice, like it hurts to look at Bucky, to see the shameful things that Bucky did. Bucky latches onto that shattered voice, squeezes Steve’s hand, and eases back against the pillows. 

“You’re okay,” says Steve, his voice a song, “you’re okay.”

And they stay there a long time, just like that, holding hands and crying a little, Steve stroking the back of Bucky’s hand soothingly, so softly and lovingly that Bucky has to stop himself from crying harder.

He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve any of this.

But he lets it happen, anyway, lets the love swallow him whole.

The knock on the door is so loud that Shuri’s hand jerks, breaking a section of the Lego Death Star she’s building with her friends. All of them—Shuri, Peter, Ned, and MJ—are crammed into Peter’s room, Peter and MJ on the bed, Shuri and Ned on the floor, crowded around it like it’s a treasure chest, placing each Lego with care and precision; Saint Motel plays erratically from Peter’s five-dollar speaker at the end of his bed, as he and MJ scroll through a Wikipedia page about some Russian guy they’re doing a school project on. 

Ned lets out this pained sound. “Shuri, come on!” he cries, trying to rescue the part of the wall that she just broke.

But Shuri’s not focused on the Death Star anymore; her eyes flick to the door. 

Peter stops reading with MJ and glances at his friend. “Uh, Shuri? You, uh… You good?”

They haven’t unpacked what they’re calling  _ The James Incident  _ with their friends. They know it scares Shuri out of her mind and that Peter’s still recovering from a gruesome gunshot wound to the thigh (which is what’s keeping him confined to the bed), but all MJ and Ned know is that some creep was at the hotel and shot Peter. That’s it. So far, they’ve refused to talk about it, and MJ and Ned aren’t ones to push. They don’t know about James, that T’challa pulled the fire alarm and sent the whole motel into chaos before escaped with a naked, bleeding man on a buffet cart. They don’t know that Nakia tried to heal the man, but one of his wounds got infected and they had to rush him to the nearest hospital. They don’t know that the rapist came back and threatened to—

The knock again, louder, and Shuri jumps to her feet. “Were you” —her throat contracts— “expecting someone?” Her heart’s already picking up, skipping beats and sending panic thrumming through her.

Peter senses her discomfort and sits up on the bed, one hand on his heavily bandaged thigh. “No,” he says, the word thick in his mouth.

Ned and MJ are giving each other these tense, awkward glances. MJ stares at Peter like she’s solving a murder, puzzling over his blood-drained face and the way his hands start shaking. 

“Peter,” says Shuri, and there go the knocks, again:  _ bang, bang, bang!  _ Her question goes unspoken: who is it?

“I don’t know,” he says, nervous now. “May’s at work, and she didn’t…” He swallows. “Didn’t, um, say anything.”

There’s this unspoken conversation between Peter and Shuri as Ned and MJ puzzle over the tension flooding the room.  _ What if it’s Brock?  _ asks Shuri’s eyes, and Peter just looks terrified.

Before, the fear that struck Peter involving Brock was detached, because he’d never actually seen Brock in person. Of course, he was sickened by the suffering Brock had inflicted on Bucky; seeing him beaten so badly that he thought he was dead, seeing a person that  _ beaten _ outside of a horror movie, was enough to send Peter’s anxiety through the roof. Through the stratosphere, more like.

Before that day, Peter had never seen the blinding fury, the obsessive, violent rage that blurred over his face. And now, having been at the other end of that rage, with Brock’s bullet tearing muscle and cracking bone, Peter can feel the terror spiking, vibrating over every inch of his skin; it’s then that MJ and Ned know something has to be wrong. “Is it the guy?” asks MJ, with this anxious, determined look on her face.

“I don’t know,” whispers Peter.

Shuri’s still frozen in place, like she’s been immersed in carbonite, eyes wide, trained on the door.

“We gotta—gotta see who it is,” says Ned, a little too loud, and Peter hisses for him to be quiet, just as MJ slides off of the bed, grabbing Peter’s lifesize lightsaber from beside his dresser. 

“I got this,” she says.  _ Bang, bang.  _

Peter’s whole face goes white like a sheet. “No, don’t…  _ MJ _ .”

She’s already snuck towards the door to the apartment, hands tightening on the lightsaber, breathing deeply to collect herself. Whatever comes through that door… It’s gotta go through her. Shuri, Peter, and Ned watch in horror as she creeps up to the door, lightsaber in hand, and peers through the peephole. 

Her shoulders slump, the lightsaber drops a little, and she turns around, strands of curly hair straying from her head. “It’s the police,” she says. “A woman, and a black man with an eye patch.” Both are so contradictory to the face MJ had seen on TV that she knows it can’t be the man that shot Peter.

Some unintelligible murmuring from behind the door.

Still, Shuri shakes her head. “No,” she replies, accent seeping into her words. “We can’t trust anyone.” They all know that Brock came back to kidnap James—it was all over the news. He dressed as a cop and broke into the hospital. “No.”

Finally, a female voice from the other side of the door. “Ms. Parker? This is Detective Carol Danvers, NYPD. And my partner, Detective Nick Fury.” A pause, like it’s difficult for her to say. “We’re here about the Barnes case.”

_ Danvers.  _ Shuri recognizes that name, that voice. That’s the woman who took her testimony and tracked down Brock without making a single sniff in the direction of her citizenship. She relaxes.”Open the door,” she says. “She’s here to help.”

So MJ opens it, still gripping the lightsaber, and before them is fierce, blonde woman dressed in an Air Force shirt and a leather jacket, and a black man, dressed in all black, both with NYPD badges dangling around their necks. “You’re not Peter Parker,” says the woman, staring at MJ. “And you can put your weapon down. I’m just here to talk.”

MJ raises the lightsaber a fraction of an inch as if to say  _ never.  _

Carol looks past MJ to see Peter sprawled on the bed, his wounded leg in a stiff cast. “Hey, Peter Parker,” she says, with a grim, almost reassuring smile. “I think you’ve got something for me.”

Peter blinks, gulps, tries to soften the spiderwebs of fear that had, until that moment, twisted around his chest and squeezed. “What’s that?”

“The testimony,” she says, “that’ll put Brock Rumlow behind bars.”


	6. if the night comes (at least the war is over)

The car ride to Steve’s place is filled with this viscous silence that clings to Wanda’s fingertips, circling her palms, and trails down Sam’s back like a set of wings, like if he tried to break the silence, it would spread its wings and take flight. 

It’s the first time they’ve been to that  _ place _ since… Since this  _ shit  _ went down.  _ We have to, _ said Sam, as soon as Steve was awake.  _ We can’t let him go back to…that.  _

The doctors told them earlier today that they would let Steve go after one more overnight stay, to monitor the brain trauma. Wanda didn’t say anything, only nodded and slid her hands up and down her hands like she was cold.

Now, as they ride up the elevator and unlock the door with Sam’s spare key—he’s had one since Steve moved in, and the same for Wanda since Bucky got a key—the silence is almost palpable. There’s blood on the fucking doorknob, and Sam grabs it with the edge of his sleeve, rubs it away, and  _ twists _ . Neither of them could have ever prepared themselves for the sight that greets them now—no crime show, no murder mystery, no serial killer documentary could teach them what it’s like to walk into the crime scene that caused such fucking  _ hurt  _ to their two closest friends.

It’s a nightmare: the blood-spattered kitchen, the floor speckled with shattered glass, broken paintings where heads and fists slammed into walls, coffee table tipped on its side, clothing ripped to unrecognizable shreds, bed with black cords tied at each end…

Then they find the bathtub. 

Wanda stops in her tracks, a strangled gasp halting in her throat; Sam takes a step back, like the horror of it is staining him now, too. “Fuck,” says Wanda first, slicing open the silence like a head wound. “ _ Fuck,  _ Sam.”

“I know,” he says, impossibly soft. His dark eyes jump across the room, hesitant, horrified. 

The blood that stains the tub is almost black now, looking more like dried tar than the red shit that doused Steve’s clothes and Bucky’s body when they brought them into the hospital. It’s disrupted,  _ disturbed, _ by these imprints, these empty smears where arms curled around waists and legs tangled together, where police officers and detectives swabbed for DNA samples, where paramedics pulled two near-dead lovers out of the tub, out of the comfort of each others’ arms.

It’s all  _ wrong _ , like watching a movie in reverse: the way the morning light filters over blackened blood, the way remnants of fingers and love and hurt and dying harden into bloody streaks on the ivory porcelain.

And Wanda turns to say something else, but the words snag in her throat, tangle up between her teeth like dental floss, and she sees Sam. 

They haven’t done it yet, this shared  _ life is so fucked up, how could someone do this to these good, beautiful people _ ; so far, they’ve stood stoically with each other, murmuring apologies and erasing the tears from their faces. Now, Sam is crying silently, tears streaming down his face, his hand cupped over his mouth to stifle any noise, like the silence has taken over his whole body. 

Quietly, without thinking, Wanda takes his hand.

Together, they mourn.

* * *

Wanda’s never cleaned up this much blood in her life.

They start by scrubbing the bathtub (hands and knees, bleach and rags, fingers and thumbs), cleaning it until it shines like it’d never been touched by a drop of blood. Sam keeps crying as he works, pausing occasionally to wipe his sleeve over his eyes.

They move from one room to another in silence, until everything looks as it did before.

Still, it looks wrong. Broken. Like a brutal gunshot wound, that once healed and scarred over but now has become infected. They clean and clean and clean… But still, it doesn’t feel like a home.

Wanda’s not sure if it ever will again.

* * *

Maria has been putting this trial on hold, getting permission from Judge Coulson to push the Pierce trial date further and further and further until finally he calls her. “The trial’s coming up in a few weeks, Maria,” he says, referring to her latest proposal to push the date, “and we’re not changing it again.”

“You saw what happened,” snaps Maria, her viciousness heard even over the phone. “Barnes is neither medically or mentally fit to go through with this trial.”

Coulson sighs. “It’s now or never, Ms. Hill. It’s been six months since this all began—we’re affecting lives, here.”

“Mr. Barnes,” declares Maria, “isn’t ready for this. He’s barely alive in that hospital.”

“How long then, Ms. Hill?”

“The doctors said he’d be out in a month or two, at most.” She glances over at her notes, the ones that Dr. Frigga Njordsen gave her about Bucky’s updated condition. “Just wait until he’s out of the hospital, at least.”

“You’ve got one month,” he answers finally. “On August 12th, the Barnes trial is happening. No more waiting.” Then he hangs up, without another word.

* * *

Pietro doesn’t believe in miracles.

He stopped believing in them after he lost his twin sister to a piece of shrapnel that left her bleeding in his arms.

But now, with this woman named Pepper who never gets angry and this man named Tony who never goes touches him beyond the occasional high-five or pat on the shoulder, Pietro knows something has to go wrong. It’s too perfect. Everything’s too perfect. The counters are always too clean, their touches are always too short, their smiles always too easy. Their home is  _ strange,  _ too; all the noises are different. Instead of banging headboards, bitten-off moans, and broken whimpers, he hears rock music, relaxed laughter, and reassuring words.

Even with Pepper constantly reminding him that he’s safe, everything feels  _ wrong.  _ He doesn’t understand why he’s getting all these nice things: clothes, video games, sports equipment… He’s always had to  _ give  _ something for stuff like this, so why hasn’t that happened yet? Last time he got a suit, back when he was twelve, Johann paid for it.  _ Now you’ve gotta pay me _ , he said, with that smile, and Pietro dropped to his knees.

“Why am I here?” he asks one day, as they’re eating breakfast. 

Pepper sets her fork down and looks him dead in the eye. “We prayed for a child,” she says simply, “and God gave us one.”

He goes quiet after that. He doesn’t want to argue with her, to tell her that the same god who’s he says gave him to her also brought him to Johann. 

He doesn’t  _ understand.  _ And he keeps trying to pay them back, one thing at a time, and when he does, they look at him like he’s a clown walking through the middle of Manhattan—with whispers of therapy and social workers and something they call PTSD.

_ They’re at the movies.  _ Tony bought the tickets, with some flashy gold credit card that looks like Johann’s, something that makes him stare absently at Tony’s wallet for a few seconds before shaking his head and moving on. Tony offers him candy, something Pietro is familiar with, and he picks the white and green box—a candy with chocolate and mint. Johann always liked when Pietro tasted like chocolate and mint, and Pietro wants to please his new family as much as he can. 

He doesn’t know what the movie is called—it’s a kid’s movie, a cartoon that blurs into too-bright colors in front of him. He stops paying attention after the first few minutes, instead sensing the body language of the man beside him: Tony. He doesn’t know much about his new father, only that he never spends any time alone with Pietro. So far, he’s spent hours alone in his lab, working, or with Pepper and Pietro both. He’s nothing like Johann, so far—doesn’t come into the shower when he’s inside, doesn’t enter his bedroom, doesn’t yell at him to  _ shut the fuck up _ , although Pietro barely speaks enough for that to happen, anyway.

Tony’s not  _ doing  _ anything, even though it’s the perfect opportunity—dark, secluded, just enough noise to cover up a muffled moan. If he were Johann, Pietro’s pants would already be down to his ankles. It’s  _ scary  _ how Tony never makes a move, never slides his arm past the armrest into Pietro’s side, never breaks the barrier made by the movie theater chair.

It’s fine. Pietro’s dealt with these kind of men, the ones who are loud in public and quiet in bed, the ones who never ask for a single thing, but their bodies say everything once Pietro starts. 

So Pietro starts. 

He slips his hand— _ perfect hands,  _ Johann would breathe,  _ fucking perfect hands— _ under the armrest, brushes against Tony’s knee first, and then takes it back—no response, like he didn’t notice. He does it again, careful not to make too much movement, curling his hand lightly over Tony’s thigh _ — _ before sliding up, up—

—Tony jerks away so suddenly that the bucket of popcorn he’s holding spills across the floor, and he catches his wrist with his other hand; everything in Pietro’s body stops.  _ You were bad _ , his brain hisses, dark and cloudy, thickening behind his eyes.  _ You were bad, you were bad, you were bad and now he’s gonna punish you— _

Tony lets go of his hand quickly, like the touch of Pietro’s dirty skin burned him, and Pietro pulls his hand back to his chest, guilt glaring through his lungs. Tony gets up—Pietro’s hands clench around his elbows—but he only switches seats with Pepper.

Pietro holds his breath.

* * *

Pietro doesn’t talk in the car ride home, and neither does Tony. It’s mostly their driver, a big man named Happy— _ he’s a big man,  _ whispered Johann, one hand on his cheek,  _ but he’ll love you _ —who talks in these low grunts and sarcastic quips, telling a story that Pietro can’t bother to listen to. He’s watching Tony, every brain cell watching his every move. He doesn’t make any aggressive motions towards Pietro, doesn’t glare or lash out or growl, but that doesn’t mean anything. Some men don’t show their anger right away, storing it inside until later.

Pietro knows what’s coming. 

* * *

They get back late, around eleven, and Tony’s been so quiet that Pietro is in full-blown panic mode, his heart pummeling his ribs. He can feel his whole body buzzing with anticipation, so poisonous that it splays across his lungs and seeps into his blood. Then Tony says it: “Hey, buddy, how about you head to bed? I just gotta talk to Pep for a sec.”

Pietro gets up from his seat at the kitchen table, and without a word, moves down the hall. His whole body seems to slump. At least now, he knows it’s time. This rhythm, of pleasure and punishment, of good and bad, he’s familiar with. 

He sits at the edge of his bed. This, what’s happening right now… It’s been every day for the past seven years, so he’s used to it by now. The aches and pains, the long showers, the smell of someone else on his skin. He wonders, distantly, what Tony smells like. Something like motor oil and sandalwood, he knows, but there’s something else, too; how long will it take to scrub Tony from his skin?

_ I’m sorry, sir,  _ he’d say, softly, like the quieter he was, the gentler Johann would be.

The man would shake his head, run the back of his hand down Pietro’s arm.  _ Sorry doesn’t make it better,  _ he’d say, almost apologetic.  _ If I don’t punish you, you’ll never learn. _

Pietro would hang his head a little, shame flooding him.  _ I’ll do better next time, sir. _

_ Don’t give me that face.  _ Johann would tap his cheek with his hand, lift his chin.  _ Give me your pretty face, darling,  _ he’d say, his voice thickening with dark arousal, and Pietro would retreat into his head, somewhere he knew all the steps—raise your chin, part your lips, close your eyes just enough, tilt your neck, lift your hips—and slink back into the cavelike corners of his head.

_ Where do you want me?  _ he’d ask, with that naïve voice that Johann loved so much.

_ Down,  _ Johann would answer, like Pietro was a Rottweiler instead of a fifteen-year-old boy.  _ Turn over, darling. _

And he would.

Now, Pietro fiddles with the hem of his shirt, listening to the muffled voices down the hall. He swallows hard—something clenches deep in his chest—and puts on his pretty face.

* * *

“We shouldn’t have sent him to his room,” says Tony, pacing back and forth in front of the kitchen table. He’s agitated, of course—who the fuck wouldn’t be when his kid just tried to feel him up in a movie theater? Before Pietro arrived, he thought he’d have trouble calling him his  _ kid,  _ his  _ son,  _ his  _ child _ , but as soon as that blonde kid walked through his front door, he knew he’d do anything to protect him. Now, what’s he supposed to protect him from? Himself? “Now he’s gonna think—fuck, I don’t  _ know _ what he thinks. He’s been antsy around me since day one—”

“That’s not your fault,” interjects Pepper, but Tony barrels on.

“—and now he does this? What the hell am I supposed to do? I’m not a father—I shouldn’t be a father, Pepper, not me, not any Stark, I’m a nightmare, a time bomb, no wonder he thinks he’s gotta—fucking—molest me or whatever—”

“Tony,” says Pepper. It’s clear that she’s scared, too, but she holds it in, instead pressing her hand against Tony’s chest. “We can’t do this right now, okay? Right now, we have to  _ talk  _ to him before this gets worse. He doesn’t understand… He doesn’t know what to think right now—we have to  _ explain _ .”

Tony reaches over and grabs her hand, their fingers grasping each other like a lifeline. “Okay,” he says. He never thought he’d have to do this. He thought parenting would come out of one of those books, telling him about how to get through the toddler stage and how to teach them how to read. As it turns out, there aren’t any books on how to raise a former prostitute. Pepper and him… They’ve been playing it by ear. “After this, though,” he continues, “he’s gotta see someone. I know you wanted to give him time to adjust before we put him in therapy, but he needs it. He never talks, never sleeps, never does anything of his own free will—we can’t keep having him live in fear like this.”

Pepper tilts her head back and closes her eyes. “I know—okay, okay. Tomorrow, we’ll call Maria. Tonight—go get him. And be gentle, Tony.” She squeezes his hand. “I know you’re upset about what happened to him, but you’ve gotta let that go. You’re gonna scare him if you keep holding your fists like you’re gonna punch the life out of him.”

“Not out of him,” Tony says, low and threatening, “out of Johann fucking Schmidt.”

Pepper kisses the back of his hand. “Calm, honey.  _ Calm _ .”

Tony uncoils some of the tension in his fists, relaxes his shoulders, and sighs. 

And he goes to his son’s room.

* * *

All the anger melts from his bones as soon as he sees Pietro. The thing is, Tony’s been in this position—not Pietro’s, exactly, but he’s been waiting after a fight for his father to come upstairs. Once, when he was fifteen, he crashed his dad’s car after taking it for a drunken spin. 

_ He takes a cab home that night, leaving the broken car on the side of the road, and limps all the way up to his room. His dad gets a call later that night, around one in the morning, when Tony’s senses have finally returned to him and he realizes that he’s probably broken something in the crash. _

_ Howard doesn’t bother knocking. He shoves the door open, so hard that it slams into the wall. “What,” he growls, “the fuck, Tony?” _

_ “I’m sorry,” mumbles Tony, and he’s still a little drunk, so his body’s panic mode hasn’t fully hit yet—when Howard comes at him, he doesn’t move. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t—” _

_ Howard slaps him so hard that stars speckle the edges of his vision. “You fucking ingrate!” he snarls, with a voice so vicious that Tony thinks it couldn’t possibly come from his father, but there’re slurs drenching his words, alcohol taunting his movements, and Tony thinks suddenly, very suddenly— _ fuck.  _ All the restraint that keeps Howard Stark the picture-perfect man he is… It is gone.  _

_ Howard grabs him by the collar, shakes him furiously. He’s so much smaller than Howard, hasn’t really hit his growth spurt yet, and when Howard shakes, Tony’s whole body trembles, and there’s something in his left arm that hurts like a bitch, growing worse with every second. “What the  _ fuck  _ were you thinking? I give you everything,  _ everything,  _ and this is how you repay me?” _

_ Tony stammers out these frantic apologies, again and again; everything’s fuzzy, grainy at the edges, and he tries to move away from the blurry blob that is his father.  _

_ Howard has a voice like a needle, words that puncture his lungs over and over and over, and when Howard’s finally done screaming and hitting and Tony’s on the ground, crying, his charming voice pierces through him. “You piece of shit,” he spits, hostile. “Maybe if you start to actually think for one second, you’d be half of the man I am.” _

Nights like that were few and far between in the Stark house, but there were enough that Tony became deathly afraid of his father. And Tony would never wish that toxic, horrific fear on anyone else.

Tony knocks on Pietro’s door. There’s nothing on the door yet, even though they told him he could decorate it with whatever he wanted. He waits until he hears a soft “come in” before he opens the door, and still he stands in the doorway, trying to make himself seem less intimidating and more harmless. 

Tony shoves his hands in his pockets and nudges the door open with his elbow, careful to make all of his movements slow and predictable. Pietro’s sitting on the bed with his hands at his sides, and he’s rocking a little, forward and back, like he’s in an imaginary rocking chair. “Hey, kiddo?” he calls out, right at the door, and Pietro flinches, immediately stops rocking. He’s shirtless, Tony notices, and every muscle in his body is wound tight, like a drum. There’s something in his eyes, though, this glazed-over, distant look, with his lips half-parted. “You wanna put a shirt on, come into the kitchen?”

“Yes, sir,” says Pietro, and the look in his eyes is dripping into his voice, too, something that tastes like faux leather and worn rubber. 

Tony tugs at the collar of his shirt. He knows that voice, the  _ I-don’t-have-a-choice  _ voice that he used to use with his dad, shuffle into his office to get screamed at. “You don’t have to,” Tony reminds him. “This is all on your terms, kiddo. If you wanna stay in here, get some sleep, that’s fine by us.”

Something in Pietro’s eyes flares up, shoved down suddenly. He shakes his head. He mumbles, “No, sorry, I’ll go with you,” and pulls a shirt on over his head. 

Tony’s voice is usually like a blizzard, or maybe a heat wave, something too much to handle, but right now it taps into something he’s only felt once, with a basically neglected kid named Harley who used to sit out on Tony’s front stoop, ask him for change to go buy mechanical stuff, so he could build little robots. Tony’s heart goes soft, liquidy, like butter that’s been sitting out a little too long. “Pietro,” he says, and the boy looks up at him; his obedience makes Tony nauseous. “We’re not going to hurt you.” The boy’s gaze drops a little. “We’re not going to…” Tony winces. “...touch you. We’ll never touch you without your permission, okay? We’re only gonna talk.”

The boy lifts his shoulders, and then drops them, silent. He stands up, and moves past Tony into the kitchen. Tony, with an aching pit hardening in his heart, follows him.

* * *

Pepper’s the first one to talk. “Pietro,” she begins, smiling a little, “you’re not in trouble. Tony and I are going to sit on this side of the table, and we won’t cross to your side, okay? You’re safe here.”

The blonde-haired boy nods blankly. 

Pepper’s hand finds his and  _ squeezes _ . That’s his cue. “Kid, we just want to talk about what happened in the movie theater today.” Pietro’s eyes flicker down, staring intently at the table in front of him. “You, um, you touched me, kid, in a way that no kid should ever touch an adult and no adult should ever touch a kid.”

Pietro’s stare doesn’t falter. There’s no response, no  _ of course  _ or  _ that’s not true  _ or anything, just chilled silence.

Tony glances, helpless, at Pepper, and she continues for him. “Hon, I know that when you were with your abuser, that he made you do some… some sexual things for him, but you don’t have to do that anymore, okay? What happened to you was wrong, and it will never happen again.” They’re treading into dark territory now, and Tony watches as Pietro’s eyes spark with something sickeningly dark, and he turns to look at Pepper as she speaks, trying to explain the situation to him. “You don’t have to do that anymore.”

Pietro says nothing. 

A few beats pass, and finally Tony says, “I’ll never touch you like that...sexually, um… I’ll never hurt you, kiddo. I’m your parent now, and parents don’t do shi—stuff like that to their kids. No one should do this to kids.”

“That’s right,” Pepper agrees. “Does that make sense?”

Pietro stares at her for a moment too long, and then nods without meeting her eyes. 

“Do you have anything you want to say, honey? Sometimes it can be helpful to talk about stuff like this, when it happens.”

Pietro picks at his cuticles, over and over until he’s peeling the skin away from his nail, as Pepper and Tony wait in ragged silence for him to speak. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, in this dry, helpless voice. “I thought…” He stops, and it takes a few seconds for him to start again. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” says Tony quickly, almost too fast, because he’s said  _ sorry  _ too many times to even count. “You never have to be sorry. What happened to you wasn’t your fault. It was Schmidt’s. You never have to be sorry, kiddo, ‘cause he fu—messed with your head, he made you think that you should do this, but he lied. He  _ lied _ to you.”

Pietro picks at his fingernails, moving from one finger to the next.

They try again and again, in different metaphors and explanations, with stories of other kids, but nothing works. It’s clear that Pietro doesn’t believe them, or doesn’t want to, so they send him to bed, eventually, with a promise that they will never come into his room without permission.

Afterwards, Tony kisses Pepper’s shoulder and holds her close. “It didn’t work,” he says quietly, after Pietro’s door closes. 

“Baby steps, Tony,” she answers, but it’s clear she’s shaken, too. “One speech isn’t gonna make him believe that our home is different than Schmidt’s.” Tony nods into her neck, sighs into her hair, and she runs her hands along his back. “We can do this, right?” she whispers, softer than ever.

“If anyone can do this” —Tony holds her tighter— “it has to be us.”

“We can do it,” she breathes. “We can. We can.”

“One day,” Tony whispers, “he’ll know he’s safe.”

* * *

It doesn’t take Steve long to realize that Bucky flinches every time he moves. Every time Steve gets up or shifts closer or moves his hands, Bucky jerks back a little. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Buck,” he reminds him. “I’d never hurt you.”

And each time, Bucky just closes his eyes and pretends it never happened.

After almost a week of this tug of war, Bucky (following a flinch so violent that blood beads over the stitches in his side) croaks, “I don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what, baby?” Steve asks. He’s sitting in the chair beside Bucky’s bed, backed away a little farther than usual. 

Bucky tenses, toes curling. “Why aren’t you mad at me?”

Steve rubs his hands together, like touching his hands to each other can make up for the fact that he can’t touch Bucky. “I could never be mad at you, Buck, not for this. What happened to you wasn’t your fault.”

Bucky shakes his head, and the little clear tube below his nose trembles. “I cheated on you,” he whispers. “You have to be mad.”

This uncontrollable surge of sadness rushes over Steve; Bucky looks at him, expectant of pain, a half-made puzzle of discolored skin and blatant fear. “No, baby…” Steve’s chest aches with this deepening anguish, something he hasn’t been able to erase from his chest since he woke up. “He forced you  to. He…”

“But I did it,” rasps Bucky, and his face ripples with regret and pain. “I agreed to it. I went back, every fucking Thursday. I  _ lied  _ to you. I… I…” He lets out this odd, soblike sound. “We were doing so good…and I fucked it up. I’m sorry.” His eyes well with tears, and his whole face contorts, as though he’s remembering all at once. “The things I did…” Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them he’s not looking at Steve anymore. He’s staring at the stump of his arm, where stitched cuts— _ lacerations,  _ Dr. Njordsen said,  _ that became infected; I’m sorry, but we can’t give you your arm back. The irritation from the material would worsen the infection— _ litter the already malformed skin there. “How can you even  _ look _ at me anymore?”

Steve stares at Bucky, the one person in the whole world who makes his heart do a barrel roll in his chest, the one person who he can lock eyes with and know that everything is gonna be okay, the one person who makes time stop, halt, sway around their shared moments. And he wants to say everything— _ I’m sorry, I love you, it’s not your fault, I forgive you, please forgive yourself— _ but he doesn’t have it in him right now. Most of those words would fall on deaf ears, anyway. So, he says, his voice shaky, “Because I’m with you to the end of the line.”

The sobs in Bucky’s chest seem to wane; his voice, deadly quiet: “I don’t think that works this time around.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, firmer, one hand on the railing of the bed, “it always works, ‘cause I love you, always. I’ll love you through this and after, okay? No matter what happens, I’m here. And I’m—I’m with you.”

And Bucky must believe it that time, or at least half-believe it, because he falls quiet again, and his cast-bound fingers dance in open air:  _ c’mere.  _

Steve takes his hand, one finger at a time. 

“To the end of the line,” Bucky repeats, in a broken breath. “To the end…” He winces, and the butterfly stitches at his hairline stretch. “You swear?”

“I swear,” Steve promises. “I’m not mad, baby. I could never be mad.” He squeezes Bucky’s fingers lightly just as Bucky starts to cry again. “I’ve got you, Buck, I’ve got you. You’ll be okay.”

And whether or not he fully believes it, Bucky relaxes anyway, crying softly, and some of the lines in his face smooth over. And Steve keeps talking until Bucky falls back asleep and Steve’s head shines with pain. “We  _ are  _ gonna be okay,” Steve promises. “We are.”

* * *

Maria Hill and Carol meet for breakfast the day before Steve and Bucky are supposed to get out of the hospital. They go to a café near Maria’s office, somewhere with so few customers that they feel comfortable discussing the case without anyone overhearing. They sit in the far back, discussing in sharp, hushed tones. Carol’s been working her ass off in these past couple weeks, gathering evidence, testimonies, and witnesses so that they’d have a strong prosecution against Rumlow. It’s almost sickening to think that Steve and Bucky still have three cases to endure—the one against Pierce, the one for Steve breaking into Rumlow’s home, and the newest one for Rumlow.

“Coulson set the Pierce date for next week,” says Maria, even though they both know it already. “Next  _ week _ , Carol.”

“I know,” Carol says, and a rush of sadness for the young couple takes over her face. “It’s not enough time, but we’ve gotta take what we can get. Tell me what you’ve got.”

And Maria talks for a while, about what Zola has and what he has, even mentioning that he’d originally put Rumlow as a potential witness, but the cop declined to testify. “His defense is pretty weak so far,” she explains. “His only witnesses were Pierce, his wife, and a psychologist. The psychologist dropped out after what happened with Bucky, said he wasn’t willing to testify against someone who had been through so much…”

Relief ripples through Carol. “That’s great,” she says. 

Maria arches an eyebrow. “And that’s not the best part.” She folds her hands on the table. “Mrs. Pierce called me yesterday—turns out, she and Alexander just separated, and she’s taking the youngest to her sister’s home in California. They’re not even touching the case; they’re leaving him to fend for himself.”

“What happened?” inquires Carol, bewildered. 

Maria shrugs. “Who cares? It’s about time. Now Zola’s only got Pierce as a witness, and his only evidence for his side is the character statements. His wife wrote one, but she’s gone, now, so I doubt they’ll give her statement much consideration.”

They discuss Bucky’s side, too—they’ve got the photographic evidence, obviously, some text messages, and four witnesses including Bucky. “You can’t expect Bucky to testify, after all this,” says Carol, and suddenly her mind goes back to that day, when she found them both curled in the bathtub, blood everywhere, deathly still— “He can’t. He’s been through too much, Maria.”

Maria pauses, glances behind her, but the only other people in the cafė are the two employees, and they’re busy chatting on the other side of the room. “His testimony is our best chance at getting Pierce.”

Something deep in Carol stirs. She visited the young, wounded couple a few days ago, and they’d been too shell-shocked to even talk about what happened, much less talk about the case.  _ He can’t,  _ Steve croaked, his forehead scrunched in pain.  _ I can’t, Carol. We’re not… It’s too much.  _ His words danced around the topic, like talking about what happened would set their tongues aflame, would burn them up from the inside. “Is it worth getting Pierce,” Carol responds finally, in this careful voice, “if Bucky has to suffer?”

And Maria stops talking, as does Carol; for two sharp-tongued, opinionated, fiery women, moments like this are rare. But it would be wrong to fill this thick, heavy void with words—it’s only with silence that they can acknowledge the impossible weight of what happened to Bucky and Steve. “You’re right,” says Maria, with that determined frown. 

So they plan the case without Bucky’s testimony; it shouldn’t be too difficult to sway the jurors in their favor, especially with Bucky’s current physical state. Afterwards, they shake hands and go their separate ways. Maria goes back to her office to work more on the case, and Carol picks up the phone. 

She dials Steve. To her surprise, he picks up, with a tone so weary that she almost regrets calling him in the first place. The last time they spoke, she told him about the upcoming Pierce date, and she can tell just by his exhausted “hey” that he’s expecting more bad news.

“You and Bucky don’t need to come to the trial,” she says, comfort creeping into her voice.

“I know,” he replies, “but Bucky’s gotta testify, and… I gotta be there for him.”

“No,” continues Carol. “I mean, Bucky doesn’t have to testify. Maria and I worked on the case—we’ve found something else, it’ll support your side well enough. Pierce doesn’t have enough to prove he’s not guilty, at this point… You’ll be okay.”

A haggard breath. “Really?”

“Yes, really, Steve, you don’t have to be there.”

A choked sound. “God, Carol… Thank you. Thank you so much.”

It’s too soon for humor, like  _ at your service  _ or  _ only for my two favorite kids this side of the Mississippi,  _ so she just swallows and says, “Just keep me posted on everything, got it? I worry.”

“Yeah, of course.” Some moving, shifting on the other end of the line, and then Steve says, “Bucky’s waking up—gotta go.”

And he hangs up.

Carol stares at her blank phone screen for a while after, wondering what kind of sicko the universe was for torturing these two poor kids. And although they’re really deep in this abyss of pain and malice, Carol and Maria have a plan to get them out, or at least to throw them a rope.

And God, it had to work. 

She doesn’t know what she’ll do if it doesn’t.

* * *

Bucky leaves the hospital three weeks after he arrived with a wheelchair, multiple casts, and an array of drugs that can barely fit in their medicine cabinet.  _ Go home,  _ said Dr. Njordsen, with melancholy.  _ Go home, Bucky. You’ve got a rough road ahead of you.  _ And he does. He knows, better than anyone, that he’s in for a shitshow. 

Steve pushes him forward—he’s gentle, soft over every bump and sidewalk crack. Wanda’s the one who drives them, in Sam’s car. He’s got the biggest car, which they figured would make it easier to move Bucky and his wheelchair in and out.

The car ride is silent. Bucky can’t help but fidget—he’s always fidgeting now, trying to move to the least painful position—because the last time he was in a car comes back to him in heated, blurry flashes: startled yelps, someone saying  _ James _ , and calloused hands pinning his legs down. 

Bucky curls his fingers around the cast and squeezes as tightly as he can.

He wishes he could forget everything.

  
  


* * *

There are dozens upon dozens of gift baskets and get well cards piled by their door, crowding the hallway. Steve kicks them aside, not even bothering to look at them, and rolls the wheelchair forward. 

To his surprise, the place is clean. He hasn’t been back since…since everything that happened, and seeing it like this is a kick in the gut, as though everything that Bucky went through was just a dream. 

“Buck?” Steve says softly, an unfamiliar ache pinging in his stomach. “You doing okay?” At the lack of a response, worry glances off his heart. “Bucky?”

Wanda, who’s walking ahead of them both, glances back at Bucky, and confusion washes over her face. “Bucky—Bucky, hey...”

Steve lets go of the handles of the wheelchair and moves so he’s facing Bucky’s front, and he finally sees what’s going on. Bucky looks blank, like he’s drawn inside of himself, like coming inside of this place alone sent his mind running for the hills. “Baby, Bucky, come on, come back…” 

His eyes are glazed over, his face slack. He looks like he did the nights before he went missing, when he’d rock and rock and rock for hours, flinching at any movement that got too close to him. But right now, Bucky isn’t flinching. He’s barely blinking. He’s just sitting in his wheelchair, broken arm curled around his stomach as though to protect himself from another attack, staring straight through Wanda.  _ Dissociation _ , Steve remembers sharply, in Jennifer’s calming voice, and anger strikes him like a steel fist, flurrying inside of him— “This was a mistake,” Steve snaps, turning on Wanda, and she raises her hands in sudden surrender, startled. “I knew we shouldn’t have taken him back here, it’s the fucking place Rumlow tortured him—”

“It’s your  _ home _ ,” says Sam, insistent. “It’s where he learned that he was safe—”

“Yeah, well, take a fucking look at him, Sam, he wasn’t  _ safe _ ,” snarls Steve, and at Steve’s tone, Bucky curls tighter into himsef; a dagger of guilt rips Steve open. Instead of apologizing, he just scrubs an anguished hand over his face. “God— _ fuck— _ ” He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that coming home would be a bad idea, but he didn’t know… 

“You can stay at my place,” says Sam, placing a hand on Steve’s back. “It’s okay, Steve.” Bucky’s still quiet, Wanda murmuring to him, trying to pull him out of his absent state. “You’ll be okay.”

* * *

It takes two hours for Bucky to come out of that dissociative episode, and even after that, when they move him to Sam’s place and roll his wheelchair up to the kitchen table, he’s antsy, so jumpy that any sudden movement makes him flinch. He refuses any food that they offer him, oddly wary of the glass of water Steve gives to him until Steve swears it’s not drugged. They give him the guest bedroom, and Steve has to help him in the bed. “Steve?” whispers Bucky, as Steve’s moving to leave. 

“Yeah?”

“Can you—can you help me up?”

Steve frowns, turning towards him, scanning for any further injury. “Are you okay, Bucky? Do you need something?”

Bucky’s eyes shift over the room, hesitating to meet his. “Um, no, I—I just have to—no, sorry, um...”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s” —Bucky’s voice angles up in pitch— “wrong, nothing, I just gotta…” He tries to get himself up, but clearly he moves something he’s not supposed to, because his face crumples in pain, and he collapses back on the bed.

“Bucky!” It’s pure instinct; he rushes at him, the pained expression like a bolt in his stomach, but all Bucky sees is someone coming at him, and he jerks backwards, so Steve stops immediately in his tracks, not wanting to scare him more, but the younger man’s already crumbling into panic, stammering quickly, “No, no, please, no, no,  _ please,  _ I can’t…” and trying to slide away from Steve, using his one good leg to push himself to the other side of the bed.

They find out, later, through some half-mumbled apologies, that Bucky only wanted to get up to piss, because he couldn’t do it on his own, not on one cast-bound ankle and one so weakened by bed rest and strained by constant abuse that he could barely stand on it anyway.

That’s the first day.

The days after that, of terror so powerful that it permeates Bucky’s every thought, only get worse.

* * *

The Pierce trial is quick, quicker than most. Bucky and Steve aren’t there, but many of their friends are—Carol Danvers and Maria Hill, obviously, but also there’s Carol’s wife, Maria; Steve’s friends, Nat, Wanda, and Sam, Tony Stark; and countless others. 

It’s an easy one—the pictures alone solidified their case pretty well, but then Pierce’s eldest daughter, Claire, brings in a recording of Alexander basically confessing to the crime on her phone after hearing about the news of Rumlow’s attack on Bucky ( _ I’m just disappointed I didn’t get him first… Can’t believe Rumlow got the satisfaction of breaking him in… Right? That’s what I said—he’s just a fucking hooker. All he needs is someone to put him in his place, just like I did before, fuck him bloody, till he can’t remember his own fucking name…),  _ and it goes quickly after that. Pierce basically explodes on the stand, growling, “He’s a hooker. I treated him like one,” which is so close to a confession that the jury seems to sit back in their seats.

On the third day, the jury deliberates for one hundred and forty-nine minutes before determining that Alexander Pierce is guilty of all charges, and Coulson sentences him to life in prison.

They take him away then and there, handcuffs and everything, as he snarls and spits profanities at the audience and the jury, most of them directed at his daughter, Claire. Her boyfriend curls a protective arm around her shoulders in a movement that’s so  _ Steve Rogers  _ that Maria blinks in surprise. 

She calls Steve and tells him the good news, and she can hear Bucky crying in the background before Steve hangs up again. She knows this is still just the beginning. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes still have a hellstorm to endure.

* * *

Pietro doesn’t sleep that night. Or the next. Or the next. 

He doesn’t get a lot of sleep at night—typically, he slept during the day, because that was when Johann was away.  _ Nachts bist du am schönsten _ , Johann used to say, when he’d kiss his way down Pietro’s neck. He always slipped back to German when he was fucking Pietro—it was a habit of his that Pietro knew by heart, like so many of the others that Pietro learned, alongside all the rules—don’t speak unless spoken to, don’t eat unless told to, clean up after yourself, do what I tell you, keep yourself clean—and the little ones, too: no shirt in the bedroom, don’t touch the television, eating is a privilege and not a right,  _ I’m not your fucking maid, Pietro, how many times to I have to ask you to clean up your fucking MESSES, I want this kitchen spotless by the time I get back or I swear I’ll make you clean it with your tongue, is that what you want, fucking slut— _

“Pietro?”

He startles; every muscle inside him recoils, tenses, readies for the touching that follows, but nothing happens. When his vision comes back into focus, he sees the man in front of him with damp confusion. It’s Tony, his new father or whatever he’s supposed to call him, and he’s prying open Pietro’s fingers, which are clutched iron-tight around a rag; he’s saying, “C’mon, kiddo, you’re okay, just let go, let go, you’re fine…” He’s using this rhythmic, calming voice that somehow tells Pietro’s fingers to release the rag, so he does, looking down at his raw hands. What the hell was he doing? He blinks and blinks until his stew of thoughts become clear again.

“You don’t have to clean around here,” says Tony, winding the rag in his hands. “That’s not your job, kiddo.”

So that’s what he was doing.  _ Cleaning _ . This happens sometimes, a little too often, when his mind checks out and he comes back hours later, confused and disoriented. When he looks around the kitchen, he sees it looks  _ spotless _ , the whole room immaculately neat and shining with polish. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and he throws his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. God, these people are so  _ confusing _ . 

Tony’s staring at him, and a wrinkle pinches between his eyebrows. “How long have you been down here?”

Time is the worst whenever his mind freaks out like this—he goes on autopilot, and then he can never remember how long it’s been, but he tries to think back to the last thing he remembers. He always used to get up around five, just so he could clean the apartment before Johann woke up. He glances at the clock:  _ nine forty-six.  _ He gulps and shrugs his shoulders noncommittally. 

Tony gives him a smile. “It’s okay—I’m not mad, I just want you to know you don’t have to do stuff like this. You’re a kid—go be a kid. Go play video games or something, go outside—did you eat breakfast? That’s why I’m down here. I’m  _ starving _ .” He rubs his belly and keeps talking, saying something about hash browns—instinctually, Pietro’s eyes jump down to his crotch as he talks, but there’s nothing. Not even a hint of an erection. What the fuck is wrong with this family? Pietro has been fucked against the kitchen table more times than he could count, just because it was the morning and that’s what Johann often did before he left. And he got used to it. That’s the way it was. But now, this man barely touches him, never rakes his gaze over Pietro’s exposed skin, never tells him to do anything other than eat, and was angry the one time Pietro tried to please him. It’s so  _ confusing _ , and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do—

_ Click, click, click.  _ Pietro blinks. Tony’s tapping the spatula against the kitchen table, trying to capture his attention again. “You good, buddy? I lost you there for a second.”

He shrugs and trains his eyes on the table in front of him. He can feel Tony’s eyes on him, watching him carefully, so he ducks his head. 

“I made hash browns,” announces the man, scraping them onto two plates. “Well, um, you know—just put ‘em in the microwave and everything, but you know what I mean. Microwaving counts as cooking, right?”

Pietro shrugs again and takes the plate and the fork, quickly, and moves over to the other side of the room, where he inhales the wonderful smell of hash browns and quickly dives in. Johann never let him eat stuff like this— _ too greasy, too fatty, it’ll clog your pores and make you ugly and fat, and I need you pretty— _ but this is the one thing he allows himself, because he can’t help but devour it, and Tony made it for him, so it’s okay, right? He eats it fast, before it can be taken away from him, and then returns with the empty plate to the kitchen, where Tony’s still standing, barely halfway through his own plate of hash browns.

As Pietro puts his plate in the dishwasher, the older man moves, turning towards him. “Why do you do that?” Tony asks, frowning. 

Pietro has no idea what he’s talking about, so he shrugs again. But Tony won’t stop staring at him, so he says, “Do what?”

“Turn away when you eat,” he clarifies, gesturing to the clean plate. “I mean, I know you ate it because I give you a full plate and then it’s gone, but I’ve never seen you eat it.”

A strange ache winds its way through Pietro’s chest. He shrugs— _ look at me when I’m talking to you, whore _ —and meets Tony’s eyes. 

“Why do you do it?” Tony sits down, which helps Pietro relax a little.

Now that he’s asked it twice— _ answer the question, answer the FUCKING question— _ Pietro knows he has to answer. “He… He never wants to see me eat. He says I look disgusting when I…when I eat, so I just… It’s either that or eat nothing, so…”

“Schmidt said that?”

Pietro nods, winces, shrugs again. He picks at the skin lining his fingernails.

“I didn’t ask you,” says Tony gently, “why he said you should do it. I asked you why  _ you  _ do it.”

Pietro stops; his breathing halts in his chest, and he looks up at Tony, bewildered. “Because… Because… He said… I…” 

“He’s not here anymore, kiddo. So why are you still doing it?”

All of his words crowd in his throat, a traffic jam of confused sentences. 

“It’s okay, you can eat wherever you want,” Tony assures him, raising one hand. “Just think about it, okay? We’re never gonna—gonna take away your food from you. You can always eat whatever you want in this house, Pietro, ‘cause it’s your house, too.”

And then he leaves Pietro with that.

Pietro feels like the rug’s just been ripped out from under his feet—why couldn’t Tony just be like Johann? Then he wouldn’t have to fight himself every single day, stop himself from doing things Johann would want him to do. Things that every other man he’s met wanted him to do.

He just wants this confusion to end.

* * *

About three days after the trial, Sam up wakes up one night to someone shaking his shoulder—it’s  _ Wanda _ , her red hair floating above his head and tickling his nose. She’s gotten a haircut, he notices, but then he blinks himself awake. “Come quick,” she says. “It’s Steve.”

Sam doesn’t even bother to put pants on—he jumps out of bed and follows her into the other room. Sam rubs his eyes, staggering behind Wanda into the kitchen, which is…eerily empty. “Fuck,” says Wanda, scanning the room, and her fist hits the table. “He was right here.”

“Wanda,” says Sam, and he’s never felt more awake. “What happened to him?”

Wanda’s wide eyes land on him, and her hand scrunches in her hair like she’s going to pull it out. “I don’t know—he was freaking the  _ fuck  _ out, Sam, pacing around and punching the wall and shit, calling the hospital to ask them about Rumlow, but they wouldn’t tell him—”

Something like panic lights up in his chest. “Steve?” he calls out, tripping over himself to go into the other room. Bucky’s still sound asleep in his bed, his breathing whistling in his throat, but he’s alone. Where did Steve go? They check the apartment, running from room to room, but he’s nowhere to be found. Wanda tries calling him, over and over again, but he doesn’t answer. “Fuck—come on, Steve, come  _ on! _ ”

And somehow they end up outside the apartment, because Wanda thought she heard a voice outside the door, but it turns out that voice was coming from  _ three floors down _ , and they run there, barely dressed and drenched in worry.

It’s  _ Steve.  _

He’s pacing, his footsteps like knives stabbing into the sidewalk, and his hands are flailing wildly; his voice is deadly, a cold gun pressed against a  warm neck. “—this one  _ fucking thing!”  _ he’s snarling into the phone, with vicious brutality. “You piece of  _ shit,  _ just  _ give _ it to me! I need it, I need—you have to tell me where he is—”

A male voice on the other line, agitated, so loud that Wanda and Sam can hear it without it being on speaker.  _ I can’t do that, kid. You know I can’t. _

When he turns, Sam sees his face is shining, wet with tears, and he drags his arm across his face. His voice is drenched. Teary. Furious.  _ “ _ You’re a fucking coward, a fucking pathetic coward—” 

A jumble of words on the other end.

“Why?  _ Why?  _ Don’t you ask me fucking why, you know why! I’m gonna rip his head from his fucking body—”

Sometimes Sam forgets that Steve is a dangerous man—the man on the other line says something, and Steve  _ explodes— “ _ Tony, that’s fucking  _ bullshit!” — _ muscles ripple over his back and down his arms, and he lets out this guttural, angry fucking  _ roar,  _ throws his body at the nearest object (the car parked out front) and smashes his fist into the side.

That’s when Wanda and Sam intervene, grabbing him, pulling him away from the phone and from the dent in the vehicle, which is now blaring its car alarm throughout the neighborhood. He claws at them, but it’s like all his strength has left his body—his fist is bleeding now (well, both of them are), and he’s sobbing incoherently into Sam’s shirt, something about  _ making Rumlow pay _ , and he’s crying harder than Sam’s seen since he was nineteen and just lost Bucky. 

Eventually, after Wanda leaves and comes back with Sam’s keys, they turn off the car alarm, and they drag him back inside.

It’s five am by the time they get back up to the apartment; it’s been a long night, Sam knows, and it’ll be an even longer morning. 

* * *

“Steve,” says Wanda, and he rubs his hands over his face. “Steve, I talked to Tony. He said… He told me what happened.”

Rage is still burning, twisting inside Steve, although the flame is smaller now. “You don’t know what the hell happened.”

Hesitantly, Wanda replies, “He said you wanted him to hack into the hospital records…to find out where Rumlow was being treated. Because you wanted to...go find him? Make him pay?”

_ Make him pay _ sounds like a business transaction. No, Steve wants to roast Rumlow alive, to tie him down and cut his heart out of his chest, to make him know what it feels like to have your soul slashed in half. He wants to make Rumlow  _ burn  _ for the rest of eternity, wants to make him feel the unbridled  _ terror _ that he sees in Bucky’s eyes every single day.

“Is that right?” asks Wanda, her voice soft.

Steve shrugs. “So what if it is?” 

“So what?” she echoes, incredulous. “So you can’t  _ do  _ that, Steve.”

“What am I supposed to do?” answers Steve, and his words have dropped to this deadly quiet slither, like the sound a snake makes just before it strikes. “Wait?” Wait for him to come back and hurt Bucky again? Wait for him to get out of prison, just like last time? “Just let him sit in that hospital bed while he’s been raping Bucky for  _ months? _ ”

“You’re not the one who gets to decide what his punishment is,” she counters. “You’re not the judge, jury, and executioner on this one. That’s not how it works.”

“Yeah, like they did such a fucking good job the first time around,” Steve snarls. “He can’t get  _ away  _ with this. I won’t let him.”

“He won’t get away with it,” Wanda assures.

“He  _ will _ .”

“He  _ won’t. _ ” Her sentence is firm.

“You don’t know that—”

“I’m no expert on police work,” she interjects, “but I know that what happened… There’s so much evidence, it’s impossible for him to not get put away for life for what he did.” She tilts his chin at his friend. “But this isn’t about justice, Steve. I  _ know _ . This is about revenge.”

Steve clenches his fists. “I wanna fucking kill him.”

“I know. But what good will that do anybody?” She touches Steve’s shoulder. “If Tony told you where Rumlow was and you went after him, you’d be  arrested.”

“I don’t care—”

“You should care, though; if you get arrested, you can’t help Bucky. And Bucky needs you, man. He needs you more than anything.”

Thinking about Bucky makes his chest unwind a little. “Fuck…” The anger inside of him swirls, drowns under the cooling waves of worry and hurting love. “Did I… Did I scare him?”

Wanda takes his hand from across the table; Steve winces—his split knuckles burn, spotting red over Sam’s kitchen table. “A little.” She dabs at his knuckles with a wipe. “The yelling… It freaked him out, but he’s doing better. Sam, he… He helped him through it.” 

With her forefingers, she touches lightly on the cuts splintering his knuckles, spreading ointment over them. “Can I see him?” Steve asks, a pang if guilt rippling over his heart. 

She smiles sadly at him. “Are you going to punch through any more cars?” The warning is silent, but it’s there:  _ are you still angry? _

By then she’s done winding a bandage around his hand, he softens a little more. He can still feel that all-consuming rage buzzing through his bones that he felt only minutes ago, the rage that was so bright it blinded him. “Listen, Steve,” she continues, placing everything back into the first aid kit. “You can’t  _ pull _ something like this on Bucky.”

“I know—” Wanda whips a hard stare at him and he shuts up.

“He still thinks you’re angry at him, no matter what you say or what you promise or  _ anything.  _ The only thing you can do to make him understand that you won’t hurt him is to prove him wrong.” She taps his fingers with hers. “Which means you can’t afford to do this. I know it’s hard, but you can talk to me or Nat or Sam or your therapist about this. You can’t go around punching your problems away.” She sighs, this heavy sound that makes Steve nod solemnly. “Because even though I want to rip Rumlow apart piece by piece, making him pay won’t change the fact that Bucky went through hell we can’t even imagine. Making Rumlow suffer won’t make Bucky feel any safer.  _ You  _ have to do that, by being there for him, by caring for him, by loving him.” She squeezes his hand. “I know you can do it.”

Minutes later, Steve finds himself at the doorway to Bucky’s room, knocking quietly with a glass of water in hand. Bucky answers with a timid  _ come in.  _ That’s how he is these days— _ timid.  _ He opens the door and lingers in the doorway, running his hand down the doorframe. Bucky’s not in the bed anymore—there’s a plush chair in the corner, and he’s curled up in the chair in a big sweatshirt and a mug of tea Sam must have given him.  _ Curled up _ probably isn’t the right word; Bucky looks stiff and uncomfortable, as anyone would be with Bucky’s extensive injuries. The cast-bound leg and arm, the healing cuts and bruises… It leaves Bucky leaned, exhausted, against the chair like he’s just come back from war.  _ Well,  _ Steve thinks, with aching  sorrow,  _ he has. _

Bucky looks up when he enters and his body trembles. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, before Steve can say anything else.

Steve shakes his head, shoves his hands into his pockets, and, after placing a glass of water next to Bucky on the nightstand, sits against the edge of the bed, trying to banish all the aggression from his bones. “Remember what I said before? I’m not mad.”

Bucky glances at the door before blinking wearily at the ground. “That’s not what it sounded like.” He swallows, and before Steve can gather the words  _ I’m not mad  _ again in his mouth, he speaks again. “I’m sorry I fucked everything up, Steve.”

“You didn’t, baby, I promise.” Instinctually, Steve moves closer to him, but Bucky shies away. “Don’t be scared, Buck. It’s just me. Steve.  _ Your  _ Steve.  Have I ever hurt you?”

His words throw Bucky off—he blinks, confused. “No,” he whispers. Warmth swells in Steve’s chest as Bucky looks up at him; he can see the broken, brutalized gears of Bucky’s brain working overtime, chanting,  _ you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.  _ He looks beside him—a glass of water sits on the nightstand, untouched. He drinks it like a dying man, in these desperate gulps, and Steve sits there with him, waits for Bucky to say something. “Unless,” Bucky says after a moment, and a rare smile flickers over his face, stretching the stitches on his cheek and forehead, “we’re talking about seventh grade.”

“What?” Steve stares at Bucky, almost bewildered as Bucky starts to talk. 

“It was that baseball game, remember?” The hurt, the fear, the exhaustion… It all seems to melt off of him as he thinks back. “The week before school started. I was on the Wolves, you were on the… um…”

“The Falcons.” Steve grins. “You were pitching that game. I remember…” He trails off. God, that was so  _ long  _ ago.

“You used to wear newspaper in your shoes.” Bucky smiles, and he lets out this weak but wonderful chuckle.

“My shoes were too big!”

Bucky laughs again, and Steve drinks in the sound like it’s hot chocolate, because it’s been so goddamn  _ long.  _ “And you were up to bat, remember? Smacked it on the third pitch—hit me right in the fucking ribs.” He taps his bandaged chest with his hand, but this time he’s smiling. 

“I remember,” replies Steve, running his hand over his scruff. It’s not a beard per say, more like heavy stubble. He’s been too worried about Bucky to shave. “You broke your ribs.”

“No,  _ you  _ broke my ribs, Rogers.” Steve mock-gasps, and Bucky’s smile grows over his face. “And you didn’t even run to first base, you moron.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I ran to  _ you  _ instead,” says Steve.

They talk, then, talking like they’re in seventh grade, like they have nothing to worry about except what math teacher they’re gonna be stuck with, or whether or not they will win their next Little League baseball game.

Bucky head falls a little, and he looks down at his chest. His arm curls around himself. “It hurt,” he says, “like a  _ bitch _ .” His voice is going softer now, the laughter fizzling out in his eyes. “Felt kinda like this.”

With his mind brought back to the present moment, Bucky grows tense again, stiffens in Steve’s presence, so Steve says it— _ I love you— _ softly, a gentle reminder. 

Bucky jerks his head up, and the smile on his face is gone. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” says Bucky, “please.”

“I’ll always mean it.” 

Bucky shakes his head. “You can’t, not anymore. Not after… Not after all this.”

“Always means always, baby,” says Steve, and he offers Bucky his open hand. “I know what happened to you. I  _ know _ .” Bucky flinches. “But still, I love you. It doesn’t matter how many times I have to say it. Or how many glasses of water you need.” Bucky smiles a little. “I’ll always love you.” He smiles back; oceans of love stream from Steve’s heart, overwhelmed with adoration for this man in front of him. “I love you. I love you.”

Bucky slides his hand on top of Steve’s, interlaces their fingers. He gnaws on his lip for a moment, and then his face collapsed into a grateful smile. “I love you, too.”

* * *

They get the news the following Tuesday— _ fucking Tuesdays,  _ Steve hears Bucky croak under his breath—that Brock is awake. He’s been in a coma since they brought him back that night, and he finally wakes up with a few waves of brain damage and instructions to keep him away from any physical activity. 

They bring him straight to the police station, and they book him there. Officer Talos has the pleasure of reading him his rights, as Carol stands guard beside him, biting back a  _ you deserve every bit of this, asshole _ —Rumlow’s face twists into this inhuman scowl. “Name?” snaps Officer Talos. He and Carol are close, exceptionally close for two people who aren’t partners, but they and Nick Fury became good friends after sharing instances of prejudice and ignorance at the police station—Carol for being a lesbian, Nick Fury for being black, and Talos and his wife (and partner) Soren for being immigrants. Because they are so close, Talos already knows about the fuckery Rumlow did to Bucky just by glancing at him. “Name!”

Carol hits the back of Rumlow’s head. “Talk, Rumlow. Now.’

Rage fills the man’s gaze, so hateful and furious that it floods from every pore, so Carol hits him one more time, just to put him in his place. “Brock Albert Rumlow,” he growls, words almost incoherent. They go through the rest of the information—address, Social Security number, hair color, eye color, even pulling up the incident file from the day of the crime to hash out the charges again. When they’re finally done, Rumlow is seething, but Carol grabs him by his cuffed hands and shoves him forward. “It’s picture time,” she says, in a sing-song voice that drives Rumlow crazy. His mug shot truly captures who he is—he’s got this livid look in his eyes as though he wants to strangle her through the camera, and his mouth presses into a chainlike grimace. 

The next part of the booking process has already been done. Before, when Rumlow arrived at the hospital with a traumatic head injury, the nurses handed off all evidence they found—his clothing, traces of foreign DNA, any personal items—to the police. They take his fingerprints then, and Carol runs them through the system. Match: arrested for domestic violence back in 2012, served six months in prison… They take a DNA sample next. Carol pries open his mouth with one hand, and he glares at her as she does it, swiping a cotton swab on the inside of his mouth. That DNA will be useful later, to match some of the DNA they collected in Bucky’s rape kit.

Carol stops for a moment. Talos senses her hesitation and takes over for her, writing up the form for entering the DNA into their collection of evidence.  _ Bucky’s rape kit _ , she thinks again, and this time it tastes like blood in her mouth. Why the fuck does she have to say that? Why does she have to think it? It’s so horrific that she has to even  _ think  _ about those words, about saying  _ Bucky  _ and  _ rape kit  _ in the same sentence.

Talos nudges her. “You have the health report from the hospital?”

Carol rubs her chin and tries to blink away the intruding thoughts. “Yeah, of course…” She fishes for it in her desk and hands it to him. 

“Okay,” Talos says finally, with a grimace. “Then we’re done here. Soren?”

His wife, another police officer, stands at the ready by Rumlow’s side. “Yes?”

“We’re done here. Take him away.”

Rumlow goes out with a vicious snarl, screaming, “I’m gonna kill that fucking slut!”

Carol can still hear it echo in her head as Soren and Rumlow disappear down the hallway.

* * *

Sixteen hours later, Carol’s sitting in a courtroom at Rumlow’s arraignment hearing. The judge is Coulson, of course, and there are only a few people there: on the defense side sit Rumlow; his lawyer, a pale man with a Sokovian accent much thicker than Pietro’s; and a handful of police officers who used to work with Rumlow. For the prosecution, there’s Maria Hill, decked out in a navy blue pantsuit; Carol, who’s spearheading the criminal investigation on Rumlow; Nick Fury; Wanda Maximoff, dressed in a modest red dress; Sam Wilson beside Wanda, his arm strung across the back of the bench; Tony Stark, in a dark purple suit; Natasha Romanoff, who hasn’t smiled once since she entered; a middle-aged, blonde doctor who Carol assumes is Bucky’s physician; a dark-haired woman who introduces herself as Bucky’s therapist; a black man with a Wakandan accent and a fully tailored dashiki; a young woman about Pietro’s age, gripping the man’s arm, who looks to be his sister; and shockingly, Sharon Carter, Rumlow’s ex-wife, a blonde woman with brown eyes and a bullet dangling around a chain on her neck.

The absence of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes in the courtroom is like a black hole, pulsing and rippling and growing until it swallows up all of the light it can find. 

Carol can’t stop shivering. There’s something wrong with her—there  _ must  _ be, because she’s never felt anticipation writhe and twist and her gut like this, biting into her abdomen with sharpened teeth—so she sits alone. The Wakandan pair sits next to her, and that’s when she recognizes her. It’s that girl, Shuri, that witness who is friends with Peter Parker. She’s done her hair differently; it’s pulled up into a braided updo instead of the symmetrical buns she had when Carol first met her. She wants to ask about whether or not Shuri wants to testify or not, but she knows it’s not the right time. Shuri glances at her, blinks, startled, and then curls back under her brother’s arm.

After Judge Coulson begins the arraignment, Maria Hill starts, her heels clicking all the way to the front. She hands Coulson a copy of the Rumlow’s arrest report before backing up a couple steps and lifting her chin. Her accusation is lengthy, a horror story of blood and lust and gore. They only mention the charges for what Rumlow did on his own—nothing about the weekend with Schmidt, because technically that’s a different case. Even without Schmidt’s interference, there’s still a plethora of horrific charges to get through: stalking (which is getting more and more difficult to prove as time passes), repeated aggravated rape, psychological coercion, attempted murder in the third degree… These are the charges that Carol has to help Maria Hill prove over the next few months. The evidence is strong, but they have to be  _ flawless _ . There can’t be any wiggle room. Carol won’t let Bucky be hurt by Rumlow again.

“Mr. Rumlow,” announces Judge Coulson, and the motherfucker stands, “do you have have a defense counsel or does the court need to appoint you one?”

“I have a lawyer,” he says, and the pale man beside him rises.

“My name is Helmut Zemo,” says the man, and he smiles at Coulson. “I am Brock’s lawyer.”

The judge nods. “And how do you plea, Mr. Rumlow?”

“Not guilty,” growls Rumlow.

“You plead not guilty knowingly, voluntarily, and intelligently?”

“Yes.”

And then it’s final. 

There’s that wild fire in Rumlow’s eyes, of a man who has been to prison and refuses to go back, no matter the consequences. It’s a blaze that Carol’s seen in many men and women’s gazes—it means they have nothing to lose, nothing holding them back. Rumlow looks like a rat backed into a corner, like a tiger so starved it’s gnawing on the bars of its cage. 

“Detective Danvers, would you please rise and approach the podium.”

Carol nearly jumps. She’s been listening back and forth as best she can, but it’s so difficult when all she can think is  _ that motherfucker raped and tortured Bucky _ , so when Coulson states the simple determination of probable cause explaining that they’ll keep Rumlow in custody and approve further investigation into his crimes, Carol hears the words like they’re underwater. Arraignments are usually quick and easy, just more ways to gather evidence and see who the primary counsel of the defendant is. Today, it’s as though she’s a defendant herself: she wipes her sweating palms on her pants and blinks herself back into that fierce  _ Carol Danvers _ -ness that Maria loves her so much for. She stops a few feet away from Coulson. “Your Honor?”

“You’re the head detective on the defendant’s case, is that right?”

Carol tries her best not to think about Bucky, but the kid’s bloody face oozes into her mind. “Yes.”

“And you work in the” —he peers at his stack of papers— “Special Victims Division?”

“That’s right, your Honor.”

“Have you done cases like this one before, Detective?”

Carol nods. “I’ve handled every type of special victims case, your Honor. I’ve seen cases with physical and psychological coercion, cases with prostitutes, cases with figures of governmental authority… More than enough to know exactly what is happening here.”

Coulson merely nods, absorbing the information. “And you were on the defendant’s case prior to this, correct?”

“Yes.”

“If you were to assess Rumlow’s ability to… to return home until the next court appearance, what would you say, Detective?”

Carol tells him exactly what she’d say.

_ Burn, motherfucker. Burn. _

It’s really Sharon Carter’s quick statement that does it; when Coulson calls her up to the stand, she says, “Can I say it from here, your Honor?”

Coulson shakes his head. “Approach the stand, Ms. Carter.”

Sharon’s eyes flit over to where Rumlow stands. She’s very pregnant now, probably eight months, and she curls both hands over her extended belly,  rubbing softly. She’s  _ young _ , shockingly. Rumlow’s thirty-six, Carol knows, but Sharon can’t be more than twenty-five.

Coulson can sense her hesitation, especially with Rumlow so close, so he orders the three police officers flanking the former cop to bring him into a back room. Once he’s gone, Sharon eases up to the podium, glancing at the back door. “Yes, your Honor?” When Judge Coulson explains what he wants to hear, she swallows as her face turns hard. “I’m a cop, too,” she begins. “That’s how we met, you know. I work in narcotics, and he was sweet to me, sweet to people around him… It doesn’t really matter now. The thing is, it wasn’t until after we were married that I realized he was almost, um, obsessed? It didn’t matter if he was a nice person—he wouldn’t let me talk to any other man or even spend time with my mother. It was always  _ him,  _ all the time. He’d come home jealous and  _ angry,  _ just because I’d been working a case with a man instead of a woman. He’d accuse me of cheating on him, and when I apologize, he’d… He’d want us to, um, have sex to make up for it. Said it was his right, as my husband.” Carol watches Sharon as she speaks, as she frowns, face twisted in memory. “Eventually, I got sick of it. I told him no, one time, and he...exploded. Hit me. Beat me.” Her body goes rigid. “Did it anyway.”

Coulson nods grimly. “I understand this is difficult, Ms. Carter, but please make it relevant to the case.”

She nods. “Of course, your Honor. It is.” She clasps her hands together. “Um—what I’m trying to say is, no one noticed a thing. I didn’t notice, before. I knew he could be  _ intense  _ sometimes, but when he wants something, he takes it. After he was set free, he’d show up at my house, banging on the door, screaming my name, until the neighbors told him to leave. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. But all the other officers cared about was that they’d gotten their old pal back. Some of those officers are my friends, too. They said he’d changed. That he could be a safe, healthy part of the community again.” She runs her knuckles over her belly. “And then this happened.” She shakes her head, wincing back tears. “No one protected me while my case was going on. No one stopped him from texting me, telling me he’d kill me or rape me or kill my baby, too. The only things that kept him from coming back for me were locked doors and my gun.” She glares at Coulson. “I can’t tell you whether or not Brock really did all that shit to that kid. All I can tell you is that if he did, then he’s gonna come back for them, just like he did to me. And it won’t be pretty. If no one lifts a finger to protect Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, then you’ve failed another person you’re supposed to protect.”

After asking people from both sides to assess whether or not Rumlow should be free within the community, Coulson determines he’s far too dangerous to set free, even on house arrest. 

They set no bail for him, which sends Sharon into a round of relieved sobs so powerful that Tony, who’s sitting on the other side of her, hands her a package of tissues. 

Judge Coulson sets the preliminary hearing for two months from then, bangs his gavel, and dismisses the court.

Carol picks up the phone and calls Steve again.   
  
  
  



	7. all we can do (is keep breathing)

Wanda and Sam take the subway home after the arraignment—they’re both exhausted. It was a long one, especially with all the charges they had to go over, so they ride in silence. After dropping him off, Wanda goes back to her apartment and enters quietly. Jarvis goes to sleep early a lot, and even though it’s only nine o’clock, she’s still careful.

It’s a small apartment—her current job is only a secretary, after all, and Jarvis is a computer technician, so they don’t make a lot. Wanda drops her keys on the counter; across the room, her boyfriend, Jarvis, is on their couch, sitting next to a bowl of chips. He’s got _Downton Abbey_ on the TV, a show Wanda hates with every bone in her body; on the screen, a man in a black suit blocks a doorway that a maid is trying to go through. 

Jarvis takes another chip, snacks loudly. 

Jarvis made her watch the first couple seasons, so Wanda knows the female character, a maid named Anna who’s sweet and in a relationship with another man. As Anna grows irritated, telling the other man to let her through, the other man only laughs and blocks her again.

Something sickly grows in the pit of Wanda’s stomach. 

It’s this horrible dance that Wanda knows all too well: try to get around him, he blocks you, try again, he blocks again, you try to run, he grabs you, he’s _got you_ , try to fight back, he hits you…

She knows how it ends. Bucky knows how it ends. And here’s Jarvis, sitting on their couch eating potato chips, an intrigued look on his face. 

The man on the screen grabs the woman—she’s screaming, but he shoves his hand over her mouth, and he grins and growls something about how pretty she is and there’s a loud _rrriiiip_ —

“Jarvis!”

Just as Jarvis jumps at the sound of his name, fumbling for the remote, the man starts thrusting onscreen. “Wa-Wanda,” stammers Jarvis, and he finds the pause button with startled fingers, but it stops on Anna’s tearstained face—he tries turning it off, but he accidentally hits play again, and then he finally makes the screen go black.

A fractured silence follows, where Jarvis stares at Wanda and Wanda gapes at him. It’s _betrayal,_ this bitter taste in her mouth. “Wanda,” he begins, almost sheepish,“I didn’t think you were coming home tonight.”

Her voice is cold. “Why not?” she asks, walking around the couch so she can look at him clearly.

She doesn’t usually notice his accent, but right now it’s crystal clear, making his words sound foreign and uncomfortable. “Well, er…” Jealousy trickles into his voice. “You’ve been sleeping at Sam’s a lot lately, so I just assumed—”

“God, I _knew_ you were pissed about that!” Wanda starts, stabbing her finger into his chest.

“Pissed? Of course I’d be pissed! My girlfriend sleeping over with one of her _friends,_ who bloody knows what’s going on with Sam, he’s always making eyes at you, and then there’s two other blokes sleeping there, too—”

“You selfish _asshole_ !” Wanda’s a fireball, a meteor, hurtling towards him faster than he can blink. “Bucky and Steve were _attacked—_ I can’t just sit around and watch TV when they’re struggling like this—and watching _this?_ What the actual _fuck_?”

“It’s Downton Abbey!”

“It’s _rape!”_ Her chest is heaving, rage bursting from her—it’s like her eyes are on fire, because Jarvis staggers back under her gaze. “How can you watch this? How the fuck” —she takes another step at him, and he steps back— “can you watch this?”

“It’s just a TV show, Wanda, calm down—”

“Calm down? _Calm down?_ My best friend was raped and you _know_ that! You _know_! And here you are, watching it like a fucking Disney movie, when I’m at the courthouse praying that his rapist doesn’t get out of prison?”

Jarvis winces. “I’m sorry, Wanda. I… I forgot you were there today. I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, _fuck_ that!” Wanda snaps. “You don’t give a fuck about me, do you?”

“Of course I—”

“No! No! Stop fucking talking!” She’s a blazing wildfire now, uncontrollable. “You _hate_ it when I see my friends, you _hate_ it when I go out with other people, you _hate_ it when I turn on a show that you don’t like! You’re a fucking control freak, Jarvis! A fucking robot!” 

At her final outburst, Jarvis takes another step back, stumbles over the TV remote he dropped only minutes prior, and it flickers back on. This time, the woman’s crying in a room alone, her clothing half-torn from her body, and bile rises in Wanda’s throat. 

Jarvis watches her reaction. “Wanda,” he says carefully, “I think we’re both a little upset right now. How about you take a bath, love, calm down a bit, and then head up to bed? What you need right now—”

“You don’t know what the _fuck_ I need!” It occurs to her, in that moment, how much older he is than her. She’s twenty-two, not even old enough to rent a car, and he’s recently turned forty. She liked him because of the way he never touched her for longer than she wanted, how he always cared for her and bought her flowers and took her to the movies. Like in the old movies, where romance was something perfect and untouchable. But he knows exactly how to manipulate her, all the fucking time, because she’s young and naive and far too trusting of him simply because he says, _I love you_ . It isn’t going to work. He controls every aspect of her life, and she can’t take it anymore. “I’m done, Jarvis,” she says finally, picking up her purse. “I’m done with this fucking fairtytale. It’s _over_.”

“Wanda, please—” He’s embarrassed now, humiliated, glancing guiltily at the television behind him. “Let’s talk about this, love. Are you really going to break up with me over a television show? Doesn’t make much sense, does it? Let’s go over this in the morning, when we’re both a bit more logical.”

There he goes again, trying to diffuse the situation, trying to push the attention away from his wrongdoings and onto her emotions. “Yes.” She clutches her purse in one hand. “It makes perfect sense.” In today’s world, sexual assault in the media was portrayed as something to be exploited for shock value, and that’s what it was in this show. _Shock value_ . There was nothing substantial behind it, no recovery for the victim, no therapy, _nothing._ Only another victim who had to survive another day. “Imagine if Bucky was here,” she says, and Jarvis looks down at his feet. “If he saw that? How can you… How can you watch that, knowing what he went through? Knowing he just barely got out of the hands of psychopaths like _him_?”

“Wanda, I’m sorry—”

Without another word, she walks out, leaving Jarvis bewildered.

* * *

When Wanda finally gets back to Sam’s place, she opens the door with the spare key (Sam made her one so that she could watch over Steve and Bucky without worrying about getting locked out). It’s past nine o’clock now, the sun dipping so low in the sky that the clouds are ribbons of purples and indigos. 

It’s too terrible a night for it to be this beautiful.

Wanda tries to slip inside unnoticed, but Sam, sitting on the couch and typing on his laptop, hears the door just as it opens. “Wanda?” he calls out, spotting her long orange sweater. “You forget something?”

Usually, Sam stays the nights with Steve and Bucky, just to make sure they’re alright, while Wanda goes back home to her apartment. But tonight… She shakes her head. “Just worried about them,” she says softly.

He nods. “Me, too.” There’s so much packed into that sentence, so much wounded grief clamped to his voice. “Bucky… He won’t talk about what happened.”

Wanda sits down next to him on the couch; Sam slides over to give her a little more space. “I thought he was gonna meet with his therapist. Steve said…”

Sam shakes his head. “Steve couldn’t convince him, and he didn’t want to force him. Bucky refused to see her.”

“Refused?” Wanda echoes. “Jesus, Sam. This—I don’t know what to do.”

“I know,” says Sam miserably. “This is too—too big for me, I don’t… I’m not qualified for this, how could anyone be qualified, for this—this fucking _nightmare—_ ” His body sways, like he’s about to fall, like there’s a chain of trauma yanking him forward, and the laptop resting on his legs tips.

Wanda catches it before it can fall to the floor, placing it carefully on the coffee table. Without thinking, she glances at the screen: WebMD is open, its blue and white display portraying a variety of symptoms and possible medical issues. _Hand tremors_ is one, followed by _trouble reading and writing_ and _confusion_.

“Sam?” says Wanda, her worry sharpened to a dangerous point. “What’s wrong?”

Sam shakes his head.

“ _Sam_.” She points at the open laptop. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Sam’s a very expressive man—he tells his stories with gusto and excitement, punctuating his points with hand motions and eye rolls and laughter so loud it can be heard blocks away. But his face is a locked door now, like it was when he paced outside of Steve’s hospital room, like it was when they got the call from a hospital worker in the middle of the night telling them, _You’re listed as Steve Rogers’ and Bucky Barnes’ next of kin. Get to the hospital immediately—something’s happened._ Now, Sam drags a hand over his mouth and down his chin. “Something’s wrong with Steve,” he says finally, staring at the laptop before meeting her eyes.

He doesn’t say anything else; Wanda swallows. “He went through a lot, Sam. Of course there’s something wrong…”

Before she can finish her thought, he’s already shaking his head. “No. Like, really wrong. When I got back, he… There was broken glass all over the floor. And at first I thought—I thought he broke it ‘cause he was mad, you know, but then I watched, just stayed by the door, and he kept cursing, trying to grab the next plate or whatever, but he couldn’t, kept grabbing with the wrong hand or his hands would shake so bad that he couldn’t—he was so confused, kept saying shit…” He shakes his head. “It’s been happening since he got back, but I thought it’d get _better_ … Fuck, Wanda. The other day, he was trying to write something down, was gonna give it to Bucky, but he _couldn’t,_ kept getting the letters mixed up, couldn’t figure out what was happening, so I had to write it for him. It’s _bad.”_

“Dr. Njordsen said,” Wanda adds gently, “that the brain damage could have side effects, remember?” She’s scanning her own mind now, trying to find times when she’s seen Steve showing side effects like that, but she can’t. She hates herself for not thinking about him—she’s been so focused on Bucky and on helping him with the aftermath that she completely forgot. She looks over at Sam now; he’s doing that thing again, where he tightens his body until it’s nearly rigid and covers his face with his hands as though it’ll keep her from knowing that he’s crying. 

Sam’s shoulders shake. 

Wanda places a hand on his back, rubs gently, and it’s like she loosened the knot inside of him. He cries, sobs, all hiccups and tears and snot until finally it wanes, oscillating until all that’s left is red eyes and the way he squeezes the back of his neck.

She knows she’s supposed to lie to him now, to tell him _it’s okay_ and _we’re gonna be fine_ and _you don’t have to worry,_ but she can’t, not right now. Instead, she says his name, over and over—Sam, Sam, Sam—until he looks at her again. “All we can do,” she says, “is be there for them. They need us right now.” Sam nods, and all of a sudden Wanda finds herself closer than she meant to be, a closeness that’s warm and thick in her chest. “We’re gonna help them, Sam. Look at me.” He does. “We can do this. We’ll… We’ll call the doctor tomorrow, okay? And we’ll… talk to Bucky about seeing Jennifer.” 

“But he won’t… He wouldn’t…”

“It doesn’t matter if he says he won’t do it,” Wanda says firmly. “We’re going to keep trying. We’re going to help him get through this. He’s gonna be okay. Steve’s gonna be okay. We’re all” —she inches her face closer to his, touches his face with one hand— “gonna be okay.”

She’s not thinking about Jarvis anymore, or about Rumlow or Pierce or any of the fuckers who made her life and Bucky’s life a living hell. She’s thinking about the people who love them, the people who _care._ People like Sam. 

She wraps one arm around his neck and hugs him so tightly that she stops breathing for a second.

And they stay there.

* * *

Recovery is impossible.

Most mornings, Bucky wakes up drenched in sweat, his mind scattered into bloody fragments and guttural moans thrusting between his legs. _Phantom pain,_ he thinks, because that’s what he used to call it. He was young when they first started, after all, and he barely knew anything about trauma, let alone PTSD, so he didn’t have the words that he needed to understand what was happening to him. _Phantom pain_ was the only phrase he knew that could accurately describe the echoing, agonizing remnants of what he’d experienced that kept running through his brain long after it had happened. He’d lost an arm at seven years old, after all. He knew exactly what phantom pain was: agony from trauma long gone.

After times like this, times with Alexander, with Brock, with Johann, with dozens of others, he would have phantom pains so intense that even touching would force him into a gruesome memory of what had just happened. 

_It’s just phantom pain,_ he told himself, rocking back and forth on Wanda’s spare bedroom floor. 

_It’s just phantom pain,_ he whispered in the shower, as scalding water ran down his bruises.

_It—it’s just pha-phantom pain,_ he told Wanda, after she found him vomiting into her toilet, half-hysterical, bruises swelling over his face and arm and neck and fucking _everywhere_ , blood swirling into the water. Blood came down his chin as he talked—it was so hard to remember what the fuck had happened, just Alexander Pierce’s bejeweled fist and then sparks of pain—and Wanda looked horrified. _I’ll be okay, just—just g-give me a minute, I need—I need a-a minute._ When she moved towards him, his mind fizzled into immediate panic, exploding into bursts of red behind his eyes. _N-no, p-p-_ please—

Wanda looked horrified. _Phantom pain?_ she repeated, kneeling beside him. _Bucky…_

_It’s n-not real,_ he echoed, drawing his arm tighter around himself. His terror was shaped like a gun, all cold metal and blood splatters, and Alexander Pierce had one finger on the trigger. _It’s not real, it’s not real._ He hated how phantom pain always felt—like Brock had one hand around his neck and was getting ready to shove his face into the backseat of his car. _Not real._

Wanda understood all at once, as she breathed in sharply. _Bucky,_ she said again, sitting back on her heels, _please, tell me what’s wrong._

And Bucky shook his head, back and forth, until she finally stood up again. She couldn’t do anything to help him—she couldn’t help him get out of sex work, couldn’t erase his criminal record to get him a new job, couldn’t stop his abusers from hurting him, couldn’t do _anything._ So instead of trying to fix it, she picked up a blanket from the living room, handed it to him, and sat beside him. She didn’t touch him; that was what Bucky loved most about her: she never touched him when he didn’t want to be touched. _Show me your arm, Bucky,_ she said gently once he finally calmed, her words the smooth, certain tug of a bow over a violin. 

Bucky’s lungs forgot how to breathe. Wanda already saw it once—the circles upon circles of half-bruised cuts on his skin, handprints and belt marks and remnants of Alexander Pierce’s sadistic handiwork. He didn’t want to, but his arm betrayed him; he extended his arm toward her (the amputated section of his left arm ached torturously, a whine of discomfort) and closed his eyes.

Fingers at his sleeve. Air on his bloody wrist. A stiffened gasp. _Bucky,_ she breathed. He could taste the horror in his name, the garbled scream trapped in each letter. _You—you can’t go back there. I don’t know… I don’t know who’s doing this, but… You can’t._

Bucky sobbed into his arm, curling tighter around himself. _I_ have _t-to._

_No, Bucky,_ whispered Wanda, and she curled against the bathroom wall beside him. _No. No, no. I don’t care how much he’s paying you—you_ can’t. _He’s des_ troying _you, Buck. Look._

She pointed at the mirror, the floor-length one cracked at the edges. In it, Bucky could see himself, the way fear cascaded down his cheeks, poured from his wide eyes before they clenched shut again. He saw the bruises, the blood, the welts, the hickeys, the sticky stench of Alexander Pierce on every inch of him—

Tears flooded down his cheeks; phantom pain flooded his chest.

He pulled the blanket tight, tight, tighter around himself, making his own titanium shield, and _cried._ Wanda stayed beside him, quiet, until he finally stopped crying, entering limbo—dried tears, hollow chest, numb fingers—and croaked out, _I don’t wanna go back._

_Then don’t._

Bucky cried harder. 

_Bucky, Bucky…_ Wanda said, and finally he slumped back against the wall, his head knocking back, and pulled his arm around his knees. _Please. Please. Don’t go back. He’s going to_ kill _you._

It took some coaxing, and several glasses of water, but Bucky finally agreed not to go back to Pierce. He didn’t explain why he was going or what Pierce had done to him, but Wanda knew. She knew, better than anyone else, what was going on. 

And she knows what’s going on right now. She’s not there when he wakes up; she’s well aware of how having someone in his bedroom when he wakes up makes him feel like he’s being shoved into a paper shredder.

Bucky texts her from the phone beside his bed, just like he does every day. He doesn’t get out of bed—he can’t, not without help. She texts back almost immediately— _i’m up, be right there._

She’s knocking at his bedroom door within seconds, and the sound still manages to startle Bucky, even after weeks, even after the bruises have faded, even after he’s told himself over and over again that it’s just Wanda or Steve or Sam and not—

— _a fist on the door: once, twice, three times. “Who is it this time?” asks Rumlow, arms folded, leaning against the wall closest to him._

_Bucky wants this fucking gag out of his mouth, so he can scream, but he can’t move, so he settles for biting down as hard as he possibly can to attempt to quench the fear coiling in the pit of his stomach._

_A cigarette dangles from Schmidt’s mouth as he lounges in a recliner in the corner of the room; curls of smoke escape his lips. “Just another client, Brock. Open the door.”_

_The banging again, and now Bucky’s shaking so hard his legs are numbing, his muscles clenching in anticipation of another man. Knowing what’s coming should help wane the anticipation in his chest, but it_ doesn’t. _It increased tenfold until he’s whimpering as the door creaks open, and there’s a man’s voice—for a split second, Bucky considers screaming. Maybe there’s someone outside who could help him, someone who knows what it’s like to be torn apart from the inside, someone who knows what it’s like to sit in a bathtub and trace the bruises on your thighs because you can’t remember how you got them—_

_The door closes with a jolt._

_Bucky tightens his jaw and forgets all about screaming for help._

_No one will help him, no one—_

—them, fuck, but now it’s in his head and it’s all he can think about, so when the door opens every inch of his body is aflame with panic.

“Just me, Bucky,” says a soft, female voice. A head of red hair peeks from beyond the doorframe.

It takes him a few seconds to remember it’s her. _Her, not him,_ he repeats to himself. _Her, not him._ It takes him so long these days, not to slip back into the mindset of _he’s coming for me._ Sometimes he thinks it’ll never go back to the way it was before, to when he could kiss Steve and pull him in close, to when he could wake up beside Steve and smile. “Hey,” he says.

She doesn’t ask _how are you_ like she usually does, which confuses Bucky at first, but he shakes it off. She simply states, “You okay to get up?”

Reaching for her, he nods. Then, it starts again.

Each morning, Bucky has to face the consequences of what he’s done. His body still _hurts,_ but the pain is real. The titanium plates embedded to his ribs are nothing like the phantom pain he usually has. His body’s not bouncing back like it usually does, and he hates himself for it. Like every morning, Wanda loops his cast-bound arm around her neck and helps him to stand. She’s stronger than she looks; she gets him to his feet without too much struggle before settling him into his wheelchair. He’s still got his broken ankle to worry about, so he can’t move around as much as he’d like to. Wanda wheels him over to the bathroom, and then helps him onto the toilet, too. Without his arms to help him, he’s a cripple. Broken. Useless. He feels like he’s seven years old again, stuck on a hospital bed, feeling like he just lost part of his soul. In the mirror, it looks like he’s lost part of his soul—the bruises ringing his left eye and spotting his left cheek, leftover from broken bones there, don’t help. He still hasn’t gotten his arm back; he can’t, not until the gashes on the amputated limb heal completely. If he was a normal human being, he’d be on crutches by now. But he can’t, not without his arm. So he’s stuck in the wheelchair until his broken ankle heals. 

The chlamydia’s long gone. It was a seven-day treatment, seven days of humiliation as Wanda handed him medication for an infection he got by cheating on Steve. The worst part is, he doesn’t know who gave it to him. Could’ve been—his brain skips over the names—any of them.

The stab wound’s left this horrible scar in his torso, diagonal to his belly button, slightly left. Every time he has to look at it, every time Wanda lifts his shirt to check the wound and or applies ointment to the scar, he grows nauseated. He hates looking at it, hates knowing why it’s there. 

When he comes back to reality, Wanda’s holding out his pill container in one hand, one of those blue ones that he’s only ever seen old people use in movies, and a glass of water in the other. _It’s Thursday_ , he notices with a jolt. He doesn’t pay much attention to the days anymore. “Come on, Bucky.” Wanda uncaps Thursday. There’s five pills inside, each one a different size and color. “Bottoms up.”

Bucky blinks. She’s trying to cheer him up, but he sinks into the quicksand of his head instead, taking the pills. He downs them one at a time.

This doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to help him.

It feels like a punishment.

It’s been three weeks since he got out of the hospital.

It’s been seven weeks since everything happened.

Bucky doesn’t know how to go on.

* * *

By the time Wanda wheels him in to the kitchen, Sam’s already sitting down with a bagel. Steve isn’t there. “Where is he?” asks Bucky, and his face feels numb. Partially because his eye socket and cheekbone was broken when—Wanda calls it _the_ _attack_ , but Bucky doesn’t call it anything—everything happened, so it makes sense, but this is different. 

Wanda answers without looking up, stirring a cup of coffee for him. “Sleeping,” she says. She pauses before continuing. “He… He stayed up outside your door last night.”

Bucky blinks. “Why?”

Wanda pops a straw into the mug, slides it across the table. “Because he loves you.”

It’s fucking things like this that makes Bucky’s mind implode.

* * *

Steve talks to him a lot.

Bucky pretends nothing has changed—that he didn’t fuck Rumlow for six months and lie to Steve about it—but Steve won’t let him. It’s not easy to pretend, anyway. Steve keeps finding him in different corners of Sam’s apartment, sobbing or dissociating or panicking until—

—Steve doesn’t touch him, but his hand hovers near Bucky’s shoulder. “Bucky,” he says softly. His voice is gentle, too gentle, and Bucky recoils, staring at the ground.“Baby, _please_. Talk to me… Tell me what happened.”

Bucky shakes his head.

“Bucky…”

He does this at least once a day, trying to persuade Bucky to talk. Doesn’t he get it by now? Doesn’t he understand that Bucky can’t talk about all the fucked up shit he did?

“You’re… Seeing you like this, baby… I know it’s hard, but we have to… To get through this… God, Bucky, please. I don’t know what to do anymore. You’re safe now, baby, you’re safe… You can talk to someone, to me, to Jennifer, to Wanda… Bucky…”

Bucky crawls into the back of his head.

It’s safe there. Comfortable’s a stretch, but it’s _safe_. 

He stays there for a while.

* * *

Bucky doesn’t know what day it is.

_Tuesdays_ , he thinks anyway. _Fucking Tuesdays._

Every day is a Tuesday, now. 

* * *

“Time? More time? He’s fucking unresponsive, Wanda!”

“Sam...”

“No, listen—he’s not getting any better! He’s just—he’s fucking—he’s barely alive! We have to do something!”

“Like what?” A sigh. “This is all we can do, Sam. We just have to wait.”

“Wait—I _can’t_ , Wanda, I can’t do this, he’s… He’s… He’s fucking catatonic! I can’t leave the house anymore, I can’t take my classes, I can’t…”

“I’m sorry he’s such a _burden_ on you. God, Sam, it’s not like you’re gonna lose your apartment or anything—Steve said he’d help out, God knows he’s got the money—”

“It’s not about that!”

“Then what _is_ this about?”

“It’s about Bucky! He needs—he needs help, help I can’t give—I don’t have—I mean, look at him!”

“You can’t force recovery on him, Sam. He needs time.”

“Time? Fuck, Wanda, he needs an institution!”

“What. The. Fuck.”

“No, sorry—fuck, you know what I mean—he needs _help_.”

“ _We’re_ helping him.”

“No, we’re _housing_ him. He looks the same as he did when he got out of the hospital, Wanda. He looks… He looks like he’s _dead._ Fucking _dead._ ” A shaky breath. “We need to send him somewhere. Somewhere people can actually… can actually _do_ something for him.”

There’s this sickly pause. “You don’t get to make choices for him, Sam Wilson. That’s what Brock Rumlow did.”

* * *

“Bucky?”

Bucky looks at her, unstiffens from his spot on the couch.

Wanda gives him this sad, battered smile. “Do you think… Do you think you’d want to talk to someone? About what, um, what happened? With—”

“Don’t say it,” Bucky croaks, and he immediately regrets it. Saying Brock’s name seems like a taboo now, like mentioning him means he’ll show up at Bucky’s bedroom window. “Please.”

Wanda clears her throat. “Sorry. Do you… You maybe wanna see Jennifer? Sometime? This week, next week… I think it’d be a good idea.”

The word feels like sandpaper in his mouth. “No.”

“Bucky… It might help, you know, talking about—”

“—about how I fucked another man for six months?” Bucky scoffs. “No fucking thanks.” It’s the longest sentence he’s said in days, but he’s sick of this. Don’t they know what’s gonna happen? “She saw the news. Everyone fucking did. They know what happened already.”

“Buck—”

“She doesn’t need to hear my side, Wanda,” snaps Bucky; his voice drips in malice. “No one does. So stop asking.”

So Wanda stops asking. But she tells Sam to, instead. 

It’s worse, when Sam asks, because he’s bigger and his voice is lower and Bucky can’t breathe when he says _Rumlow,_ so Bucky goes back inside of his head. 

He doesn’t want to do it. He’s so fucking scared, terrified that Jennifer’s gonna take one look at him and spit, terrified that one minute alone with Steve will mean punishment, terrified that if he goes outside that everyone will _know_.

So he keeps inside of his head.

And he survives.

* * *

The bad days outnumber the good days in the Stark-Potts household now, but at least there are good days. Pietro likes to run, they find, so they get him everything he needs. A gym membership. Athletic clothes. Anything he wants. Once, Pepper drives him somewhere far—somewhere the trails disappear into neverending trees, somewhere the air doesn’t reek of businessmen and car exhaust. Pietro loves it; Pepper watches his face twitch into an impossibly wide smile. Pepper’s a runner, too, so she understands. Pietro, for the first time in a while, is _happy._

The car ride is silent. The walk to the trail is silent. The run is silent.

The silence is wonderful; Pepper watches the tension ease out of the boy’s shoulders, watches the lines in his face melt away. _He shouldn’t have lines in his face,_ she thinks to herself. _He’s fifteen years old._ There’s a lot that Pietro shouldn’t have to carry at fifteen years old, but… She runs a little faster, catching up with him. 

It’s a comfortable silence, one that Pietro interrupts with a hard breath and a sigh once they reach the end of the trail. “When are you sending me home?” he asks, and his voice is so quiet she almost misses it.

Pepper sits down across from him, leaning back against a tree. “Pietro, honey…” He doesn’t look at her, just fiddles with his shoelaces. He does that a lot now, tying and untying them. “We’re not gonna send you back to… to that man.”

Pietro doesn’t say anything.

Pepper swallows hard, continues. “He did some terrible things—to you, to other kids, to other people… He’s gonna be in jail for a long time.”

He starts to pull up the grass, one bunch at a time. “But when he gets out… Are you gonna send me back?”

Pepper folds her legs so she’s sitting cross-legged. _When he gets out…_ Pepper knows men like Schmidt, men like Alexander Pierce, men who have so much money and power and influence that they can get away with anything. Almost anything. “He’s not going to get out, honey. I promise.”

“Yes, he will.”

“No,” Pepper repeats. “He won’t.” Pietro’s gaze drops. “Pietro, look at me,” she says, and she immediately regrets her words. Pietro has this habit of obeying every command they give him, so they’ve started phrasing most things they say in questions ( _Do you want to come eat dinner? Are you okay with going upstairs_ ?) but even those have little hints of commands inside of them, so Maria, Pietro’s psychiatrist, advised them to use _this or that_ questions, which encourage Pietro to make his own decisions. “He’s not getting out. Not this time.”

Pietro shrugs.

The run back is a little more tense, tainted by thoughts of Schmidt, and Pietro trips twice on the way down.

The drive back is not quite as nice as the drive up; Pietro folds his hands in his lap and barely moves the entire time.

It doesn’t come back until later, when Pepper and Tony are going to bed. Tony’s braiding her hair, his hands moving carefully over her scalp, as he talks about Pietro’s most recent appointment with Maria. “This is the sixth time he’s met with her,” Tony says, and Pepper sighs.

Tony’s usually the one who takes Pietro to the appointments—Mondays at three—because Pepper has meetings, so he’s the one who stays with him during the appointments. “Any progress?”

Tony finishes the braid and slinks beneath the covers. “Not when I’m there, at least. Maria does half the appointment with me, half without, and whenever I’m there, the kid can’t get out more than a couple words.”

Pepper turns off the lamp beside the bed with a _click_ , drenching the room in darkness. “Recovery takes time, sweetheart.” She pulls the covers over herself, sliding into bed beside him, and she curls up against him, kissing the back of his shoulder.

“I know,” he says softly. “I just think—”

Two soft knocks on their bedroom door.

Tony sits up immediately and fumbles for the lamp on his side, and by the time he’s turned it on, the knocking continues. Pepper stares at him—the world stops in that moment, as they both think the exact same thing: _Pietro._

“Come in,” Pepper says, sitting up, because Tony seems to have lost his voice completely.

The door opens slowly. Pietro’s blonde hair comes first, dimly lit by the lamp on Tony’s nightstand. He’s _shaking_. He’s trying to say something, because his mouth keeps opening and then closing, and he takes a step back.

“Something wrong, honey?” says Pepper, and she squeezes Tony’s forearm. _Don’t talk_ , she says with her eyes. She knows how skittish Pietro is when Tony takes charge of a situation, and she doesn’t want this one to go downhill. Pietro is gasping a little, trying to get the word out, and he’s wringing his hands. Pepper resists the urge to walk over to him and touch him, to comfort him, and instead repeats what she said before. “Are you okay? Something wrong?”

Pietro’s eyes marathon back and forth between his hands and Tony, his hands and Tony, until finally he looks in Pepper’s general direction. “I—um, when, um, earlier—” He goes back to stammering, barely able to get a single word out.

Pepper shifts so that she’s on her knees; it makes her feel more secure in the situation—if something happened, she could get to her kid faster. “It’s okay, Pietro, take your time.” Tony watches silently, trying not to move a muscle. “Just take a breath.”

Pietro doesn’t take a breath, but he does manage to slow down a little. “Um…” His eyes pinball again, from Tony to Pepper to Tony to Pepper to Tony and back to Pepper. “Earlier? On the hill?” Tony’s eyes move to Pepper. “Wh-when we were, uh, running, I didn’t—um, I didn’t mean to say what—what I said, I didn’t mean—um…”

Pepper can hear Maria’s voice in her head, saying, _Echo what he says back to you. Let him know that you understand him. Let him know that you’re listening_ . _He didn’t have someone who would listen to him—even if he worked up the courage to say no, Schmidt never gave him a chance. Schmidt never listened. You need to listen to him, no matter what he says. He thinks that all adults are like Schmidt; prove him wrong._ She bites her lip. “What didn’t you mean to say, Pietro?”

His steel-wire form doesn’t soften like she expects—it coils tighter. “That—um—sending me back—I don’t—to him, I—I don’t—I don’t want—”

“What don’t you want, honey?” 

Pietro squeezes his eyes shut. It’s the most emotion Pepper’s seen from him since he got here—he’s all terror and shaking limbs, so overcome by what he thinks might happen that he’s struggling to breathe. “To go back.” A shuddery breath. “I don’t want—to go back.”

* * *

It’s been about seven weeks since he’s arrived in their home, and this is the first time he’s confessed that. He’s asked time and time again how much time he has, or when Johann is getting him, but he’s never explicitly stated that he doesn’t want to leave. “You don’t ever have to go back, Pietro.”

Beside her, Tony moves, pressing his hand between his ribs like he’s trying to stop his heart from pounding out of his chest. This is a big moment for both of them—this is the first step that Pietro has willingly taken towards recovery. “I don’t—” Pietro looks back at Tony, then to Pepper. “Please. Please don’t—don’t make me go back.”

Pepper smiles. “You can stay here as long as you want. This is your home now.”

Pietro curls his shaking hands into fists, and he gazes at Pepper as if seeing her for the first time, eyes wide. His face is open. Vulnerable. _A child’s face,_ Pepper thinks. “Really?” he whispers, a soft, broken sound.

Pepper nods. “Really. You’re never going back there.”

Pietro collapses into tears, crying, muffled, into his hands.

And Pepper doesn’t try to get any closer to him; it’s too soon, too fast, for Pietro. Tony stays motionless beside her. _Baby steps_ , she thinks, as she tells Pietro that everything’s gonna be okay. 

And a few seconds later, the boy runs out of the room crying, but Pepper doesn’t go after him. It’s his time, his space, and he needs to understand that. This is his home, too. Everything in it belongs to him. The kitchen table, the television, the bedroom. The ability to cry without anyone watching or chasing after him or hurting him. To just cry. That belongs to him now, too.

“Baby steps,” echoes Tony, as if reading her mind, once he’s long gone. “Baby steps, Pepper.”

Pepper smiles.

* * *

Maria loves her job. She’s a psychiatrist, and she loves helping people work through their troubles, loves watching them grow despite the pain they’ve suffered. But even she needs a break sometimes. She’s got a heavy load of patients now, each with a pretty significant trauma load. 

First, there’s Nebula, a thirty-one year old woman who was in prison until last year for murdering her father; after growing sick of the psychological and physical torture she endured from him, she grew increasingly mentally unstable until finally she set fire to the house when she was sixteen with herself and both her parents inside, resulting in the loss of most of her left side, and the death of both of her parents. She was sentenced as an adult for two charges of second degree murder and arsonry and given fourteen years in prison, her sentence lessened by her mental illness and age; upon arrival, she was so violent to the other prisoners that they put her in solitary confinement. Once she got out, Maria reached out to her— _Jailbird Maria_ , some of her psychiatrist friends called her, because she always picked up ex-convict cases—and diagnosed here with complex post-traumatic stress disorder, intermittent explosive disorder, and avoidant personality disorder. In the past year, Maria’s eased the explosive episodes to almost nothing, but recently the PTSD has gotten ten times worse.

Her second-most difficult patient is a woman named Hela, one with extensive psychosis that makes her so disconnected from reality that she thinks she’s a supervillain. Hela’s not so difficult as a person; she can be quite charming, but she has psychotic episodes that are so massive that often Maria ends up bailing her out of prison time and time again. 

Then there’s Pietro. He’s the hardest one because he’s so _young_. He’s fifteen years old, and he’s been in Johann Schmidt’s cruel hands since he was eight. Maria knows exactly who Johann Schmidt is, and it’s not just because her wife is a sex crime detective; Schmidt’s the most well-known pimp in New York, and he reaches every corner of the city. She’s had about three or four patients throughout the years who’ve run in with Schmidt—she’s never had anything like Pietro before. His file is… depressing, to say the least. He has PTSD so severe that Maria had to advise Tony and Pepper not to send him to school. “He hasn’t been to school in seven years,” she reminded them a few weeks ago, when they asked. “He can’t go, not yet. We’re going to have to test him, see where he is intellectually, but it won’t be good. Kids in these situations… They’ve had to be under the radar for their entire lives, so they’re rarely sent to school.”

Pietro doesn’t talk. Not _doesn’t talk_ , as in he’s mute or deaf or socially anxious, but _doesn’t talk_ , as in he’s a closed book. When she asks him questions that are even remotely personal, he’ll shrug or ignore her or stare off into space. She can’t read his expressions like she can with every other patient, and it’s terrible because she knows exactly _why_ she can’t read him. It’s because he couldn’t show his emotions when he was around Schmidt. He had to be perfect for him. A perfect, emotionless sex toy for him. A fifteen-year-old who likes to run, a sex toy for a forty-nine year old nightmare in a tailored suit.

Maria’s nauseous now, just thinking about it, and she must make a noise or a face because Carol says, “Babe? You okay?”

It’s date night; they’re at Maria’s favorite restaurant, a vegetarian place not too far from them, but Maria’s barely eating. She feels too sick to eat. She can’t remember what she ordered, now that she thinks about it. When she looks at her plate, she had to force herself to remember what she’s eating. Some kind of salad?

“Maria,” Carol says, this time with more urgency. Worry dots her face. “ _Maria_.”

She blinks, then shakes her head, standing up. “Sorry. Just… bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

She feels her wife’s gaze on her back as she walks away. 

She spends too long in the bathroom, just sitting. Thinking about Pietro. She’s never had a patient as young as him before, and she didn’t know how much it bothered her until now. Monica is four now. Four years younger than Pietro was when Schmidt took him. God, what if Monica—if Schmidt ever—God… Maria drops her head into her hands, rubs cold water over her face.

She meets with Pietro twice once a week, on Mondays, Tony and Pietro for half an hour, and then just Pietro for another half an hour. Then she meets with Tony and Pepper on Wednesdays, and just Pietro again on Fridays. Pietro’s progress… He hasn’t made any. He barely talks during the sessions. No responses to any of her questions, no emotional reactions, just… Silence. Tony and Pepper are doing the best they can, but how… How are they going to help him? And with the trial going on…

Maria gets back to the table with puffy eyes. “Can we—can we go home?” 

Carol’s already standing up, and she’s dropping money on the table without a second thought. “Yeah, baby, of course.”

She’s concerned, Maria knows. It’s written all over her face.

But Maria doesn’t want to explain right now. Instead, she gets into the taxi and curls up beside Carol, burying her head in her shoulder. Carol takes her into her arms, kissing her forehead, and runs her hand down her back. “You’re okay, baby, you’re okay…”

* * *

Concerned is an understatement. Carol is _distressed_. Her wife hasn’t been acting like herself for days. Last Monday, she came home crying; it happens sometimes, because she’s a psychiatrist and she deals with some pretty tough shit, but it’s usually Carol who comes home with tears in her eyes. So she makes a comment (not as sensitively as she could have, but she’s Carol Danvers; she’s not known for being particularly sensitive): “You’re taking a page out of my book, babe,” says Carol as Maria eats her breakfast in silence, eyebrows furrowed. It’s Saturday morning, and Monica’s sleeping over at Maria’s parents’ house next door, so it’s just the two of them in the kitchen. “Traumatized and angsty is usually my look.” It isn’t the nicest way she could have put it, but she doesn’t know how else to confront the problem. She usually fights crime with humor and attitude and a blonde pixie cut, so that’s how she fights Maria’s sudden depressive mood. “If you really wanted to mimick me, you should try dying your hair blonde. Or getting a motorcycle. Or listening to Sugar Ray. Or Lenny Kravitz—”

“God, Carol, _please_ ,” snaps her wife. “Not everything’s a fucking joke.”

Now that gets Carol’s attention. Maria doesn’t swear. She does occasionally, like when she broke her toe kicking the washing machine or when her dad got sick or when Monica downed a bottle of grape-flavored ibuprofen when Carol accidentally left it on the counter. But Maria never swears. Carol does, all the time, like a sailor, partially because she works with Nick Fury and he’s a poor influence, and partially because it’s just the way she grew up. But Maria. Doesn’t. Swear. So Carol drops her spoon in her bowl of Cheerios and stares, dumbfounded, at her. “Maria,” she says, startled. “Are you okay?”

Maria just shakes her head.

“Babe, talk to me. I know…” Carol swallows. “I know something’s wrong. Something’s been wrong for a while now; I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. I just… I just want to know what’s wrong.” She laughs nervously. “If one of your patients is going _Sixth Sense_ on you, I wanna know, okay? I know it’d be fun being a ghost and all, but I’d like a heads up before you go totally _Casper—_ ”

Maria glares at her wife. “Really, Carol?”

“Sorry,” Carol mutters, rubbing the back of her neck. 

She looks to Carol; to her, Maria looks almost torn, like what she’s feeling has pulled her heart into pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that she can’t put back together. “It’s a patient,” she begins, finally giving in, and Carol listens.

Maria talks about a little boy, a fifteen-year-old kid who’s experienced a shit-ton of trauma; it’s _horrific_ , painful to hear, but still Carol listens. She’s heard stories like this, of sexual and physical and psychological abuse, but it’s worse because Maria _knows_ the kid. “And he has a family, now,” Maria continues. “A good couple, but… He won’t talk about _anything_. I bet it’ll take months before he even talks about the—the pimp who did this.”

“Is the guy in jail?” Carol asks softly. 

“Yeah,” she responds, tired. She rubs her eyes. “Well, not yet. He’s been charged with pandering, sexual assault of a minor, all kinds of dark, dark stuff, even murder, but…”

“But what?”

“The, um, the mom said the kid was afraid that he’d come back.”

Carol traces her spoon against the table. “Well, who wouldn’t be? He’s got PTSD so bad he can barely talk, of course he’d be scared.”

Maria shakes her head, gnaws on her lip. “No, like he’s been charged with stuff like this before—but he got out of it.”

“Got _out_?” Carol’s bewildered. What kind of person could get away with all this shit? “How?”

She shrugs. “Had people in high places, a lot of money… He’s big, Carol. And at first I wasn’t worried, but… It’s happened three times. _Three times_ . He’s got everyone in his corner. I was talking to the police—they wouldn’t give me the guy’s file, but they gave me most of the important facts. This time, with the kid, they caught him in the act, but… It happened last time, too. They caught him with a guy a little older than my kid, but he got away anyway, just because he has all that power… Fuck, Carol, he doesn’t even have a _last name._ The pimp took that from him, too.”

Carol blinks, memories pressing at the forefront of her skull. _So, what do we know about the kid?_ Carol asked Fury, as he tapped through the police files on the tablet he held.

Fury shrugged. _I got nothing, Carol. Schmidt took him from Sokovia, right? Kid said he’d been with him for seven years?_

_Yeah._

_Well, seven years ago, Sokovia was going through that civil war, remember? There are no files for this kid. No record of him, nothing. No wonder Schmidt’s had so many Sokovian kids._ _They’re off the record._

_Nothing? No school records?_

Fury looked grim. _Nada, Danvers. No doctor’s appointments, no school records, no dentists, not even a last_ name _. According to our files, Pietro doesn’t even exist. Schmidt made sure of it._

In that moment, everything starts to fall into place. Catching him in the act… The fifteen-year-old kid… The pimp… The charges that mysteriously washed away with money… The gears in Carol’s mind whir, melding together to create one coherent thought. “Fuck,” Carol whispers. Just as Maria starts to say something else, Carol stops her, her blood going cold. “Are you talking about Pietro?”

Maria’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Are you. Talking about. Pietro.”

She hesitates a beat too long, her words catching in her throat. “You know I can’t disclose my patients’ names, Carol, it’s not—”

“It’s him, isn’t it? Pietro?” Maria stops with her mouth half-open, confused. “And the pimp—it’s Schmidt. Johann fucking Schmidt.”

Maria tilts her head. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because he’s _my_ kid! I found him when—when—when Schmidt was—was raping him, in his house! I’m the one who arrested the bastard! I talked to the kid, I—I found Pietro a—a new home, and parents, too—Tony and Pepper!”

Maria’s mouth is an ‘o,’ open in disbelief. “That kid… The pimp? That’s the one who…”

“...who kidnapped Bucky,” finishes Carol seriously. “Yeah. I know.” Something surges inside of her, white-hot. “God _damnit!_ ” She slams her fist down on the table; porcelain rattles against stone. “No—No, babe, you can’t treat him, he’s not—it’s not safe— _fuck!_ ” 

“Carol,” says Maria, a warning. “What are you talking about?”

Carol realizes she’s pacing now (when did she stand up?), back and forth, like she does when a perp escapes her reach, like she does when she finds a victim dead on the floor. “Schmidt’s not just a pimp, Maria. He’s a fucking murderer.” 

Maria stiffens. “Baby—”

“Do you know what happens to people when they go up against Schmidt? They get _killed._ Schmidt finds them, somehow, and then I find out their house got burned to the ground, or they got an a car accident, or someone left the car running in their garage.” Carol shakes her head furiously; the ache inside her is explosive, boiling over into lava. “No. _No._ Not you. No. Find someone else to save.”

Maria looks a little shaken, but instead of agreeing like Carol expects her to, she shakes her head. Firmly, she says, “When I took him as a patient, I accepted all the risks that came with caring for him.”

“I don’t think you understand what the risk is, babe!” Carol brushes her hair out of her eyes. She feels like her skin’s on fire, like thinking about Schmidt burns her up from the inside out. “You know it took us four days to find Pietro a home? When police get involved, it takes a day to find a home for a kid. Less. Because you gotta get that kid off the radar before they get killed. The only ones who could keep him safe had to have enough money to keep him out of the public’s eyes or had to be out in some farm in the middle of nowhere! And the good ones… They knew about Schmidt and how dangerous he was; they couldn’t let Pietro into their house because they were _terrified_ , Maria. This—this isn’t risk, this is suicide!”

“I’m a psychiatrist. It’s my responsibility to help him to the best of my ability, no matter the consequences. I _have_ to help him.”

“Fuck that!” she snaps, stabbing the air with her finger. “You’re not the only psychiatrist in the world, babe; someone _else_ can take this risk! Not you! Not _us!_ ”

“This is _my_ risk to take!”

“No, it’s not! They can find someone else to do it!”

Maria sets her jaw. “Carol, you risk your life every single day.”

“I know” —her voice drops to this quiet, deadly tone— “and every day I wonder if this time, Johann Schmidt or some other fucker with a gun will get me.” Her eyes burn as she watches her wife. “Every day, I wonder if this time, you’ll have to raise Monica by yourself. Every day, I wonder if you’re gonna have to sleep alone.” 

This pained look flits across Maria’s face. “I know you’re scared,” she whispers, stepping in close, “and I am, too. But everyone has something they’d risk their life for, right? That’s what makes us _us_ . The way you and me—we’d die for Monica in a heartbeat—that’s what makes life worth living. The way you throw yourself into saving people, no matter what—that’s what makes life _life._ ”

Carol can’t tear her eyes away. “But this isn’t life or death—it’s not the _same_.”

Maria smiles, shakes her head. “To him? To that kid… I could change his life, Carol. Right now he’s barely living. He can’t even eat without someone telling him to, he’s that scared. That’s no way to live.” She taps her chest. “I’m gonna teach him how to live, baby; I’m gonna teach him how to breathe again.” Now, she’s so close to Carol that she finally reached out and brushes their fingers together before clasping tightly. “He needs me. And I’m not going to quit him, just like you won’t quit him. He’s _our_ responsibility now.”

Some of the urgency fizzles out in her chest. “What about Monica?” whispers Carol. “If anything happens…”

“If anything happens to me,” replies Maria, “she’s got you. And two loving grandparents. And extended family and friends who would be more than happy to love her.”

Carol swallows. “But—”

“This is my choice,” Maria responds, and she kisses Carol’s cheek. “My choice.”

Finally, Carol relents. “God, I wish I could hate you for this.”

Maria just smiles. “C’mere, baby,” she sighs, and when they fold into each other’s arms, Carol feels her blazing fury ebb away.

The worry’s still there, the worry that drives her crazy, but she relaxes a little. “You better not die on me, Maria Rambeau,” she mumbles into Maria’s shoulder.

Maria laughs and holds her tighter. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

And they leave it at that.

* * *

He hears them, all the time. Talking about him. Talking about what happened. Talking to Jennifer. “He’s not ready yet,” says Steve, pacing outside his door.

Bucky can hear her voice on the other end. _He has to process a horrific trauma, Steve. He’ll never be ready. But he has to do it. It’s going to get worse, much worse, unless he talks to someone about it._

“He can’t—you don’t under _stand,_ Jennifer, he’s not… He’s not talking to anyone about what happened. He… He…”

_I know he’s not talking._

“You—you do?”

_Steve, what happened to Bucky over the past six months… It’s worse than most people have to endure in their whole lifetime. I’d be shocked if he opened up about it only a few weeks after._

Steve shuffles across the carpet. _“_ Then—then how—”

_It’s not about talking about what happened, Steve. We have to start from square one this time—we have to tell him that he’s worthy of love, that his story is worth being heard, that what happened to him doesn’t make him worthless._

Worthless. It’s a simple word, but it’s true. It’s this venom he feels inside of him every day. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Why the hell does Steve still keep him around?

Steve finds him in Sam’s living room later that day; he’s biting his lip, looking nervous, but instead of asking him to talk about something, he asks, “Do you trust me?”

The question throws him for a loop. “Wh-what?”

Steve taps his fingers against his leg. “Do you trust me?” he repeats.

Bucky’s sitting on the couch, and he’s so thrown by the question—thoughts mix in his head, screaming and clashing, telling him he’s not safe and telling him that Steve hates him, others telling him that every good thing he’s ever done involves Steve, that he loves Steve with all his heart. “I-I don’t know,” he whispers instead.

Unexpectedly, Steve smiles. “That’s okay,” he says. “Lemme ask you a better question—you want waffles?”

The poisonous ache in Bucky’s chest dies down a little. In a moment of absolute clarity, painted over with joy and a longing for maple syrup: “Yeah.”

The whole time, Steve doesn’t touch him. 

It feels like _before_ , and hell, he misses it.

Bucky’s a good pretender—he can play this little game, of lives unpolluted, of bodies untouched, of minds unscathed. Is that what Steve wants? He can do this. He can pretend.

He sits down at the counter. Steve just moves around the kitchen, singing along to Bruce Springsteen, and gives a devilish grin when Bucky complains, “I _hate_ this song.”

“It’s Thunder Road, baby!” Steve replies, with a smile so stupidly wide that Bucky’s rotted outer shell splinters. “You want strawberries on your waffles?”

Bucky nods, watching in this half-nervous amusement as Steve cooks happily, swaying to the music.

“If this song doesn’t get you moving,” says Steve, chopping up some strawberries, “then I don’t know what will.”

This feels so nice, this back-and-forth _whatever the hell this is_. It feels like home. It feels like tulips and tomatoes, like blankets in a bathtub, like a cool glass of water, like two bodies fitting snugly together.

Bucky soon finds he’s not pretending anymore. “Um, anything that’s post-1984?” he adds with a weary smile. “Like Co—”

Steve shakes his head as he scoops a steaming pile of waffles onto a plate. “Suggest Coldplay one more time” —Steve stops mid-sentence, like he realizes he’s making a threat, and then continues, smiling, pushing the plate to Bucky— “and I’m gonna eat all your waffles.”

Bucky eats them with one hand; it’s a strange feeling, because he spent most of his childhood without an arm, but then became used to doing everything with his prosthetic arm after Tony gifted it to him. Going back to one arm… It’s like the drunk driver came back and split him in half all over again. 

When he blinks away the bad memories, Steve’s walking back into the room, a canvas in one hand, brushes and paint in the other. _When did he leave?_ Bucky thinks, but he brushes the thought away. And as Bucky picks at the remaining strawberries, Steve starts to paint.

Watching Steve paint is like watching a little kid learn how to swim. He always starts hesitant, then continues until each brushstroke is like an arm gliding through water, confident and happy and grinning that wonderful grin—

Steve spins the canvas around to face Bucky. “This,” he declares, simply. “This is how I see you all the time.”

It’s _beautiful_ . The painting is strewn with silver and gold, sunlight streaming over his bearded face. _Bearded_ … He touches his face absently. There’s scruff there, built up from all the weeks following the incident. He barely thinks about personal hygiene these days, let alone shaving. He turns back to the painting, examining it in awe. In it, he’s seen from shoulders-up, and the strips of silver and white that compile his prosthetic arm make a surge of gratitude go through him. His face glows—a half-smile lights up his face, and there are these swirls of gold near his head in mimicry of a halo, casting golden light across the rest of his face. There’s no sign of the injuries he sustained during… During everything. No cuts on his face, no bruising around his broken facial bones, no graying circles under his eyes. He looks healthy and happy and _whole_ —

“All the time,” Steve repeats. There’s blue paint by his mouth, like he tried to scratch at his chin with the back of his hand. 

Steve doesn’t mention— _don’t think it, don’t think it—_ any of them, but Bucky hears their names anyway, a sickly echo in a shark-infested cave. _Rumlow. Schmidt. Rollins. Batroc._ So many others who he didn’t even know.

It took everything for Bucky to smile only minutes ago; now, the smile disappears from his face. How can Steve see him like that?

It’s like he can read Bucky’s thoughts, because he pushes the painting across the table towards Bucky and says, “I’m not lying, Buck.”

He sounds so serious. Bucky ducks his head. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

Later, much later, he slides the painting under his bed.

For now, he leaves it right where it is.

  
  


* * *

_Steve runs in to his apartment with a headache so nauseating that spots darken his vision, grabs the baseball bat next to the front door, and screams Bucky’s name like it’s his last word. “Bucky!”_

_He’s opening every closet, every door, and there’s blood splattered in the kitchen, smeared on the floor, speckling the floor. He follows it, follows and follows and follows—_

_—and there’s a man on the ground in Bucky’s room, struggling to his feet, so Steve winds up like he’s getting ready to hit a curveball, and whips the bat at the dark-haired head._

_It meets with a satisfying_ thunk _._

_The man collapses to the floor without a sound, knees buckling beneath him._

_Steve rolls him over onto his side._

_But instead of Brock Rumlow or Alexander Pierce or Jack Rollins… It’s Bucky._

_Pain rushes into him like he’s swallowed a thousand needles, and his insides are torn apart. The blood pouring from Bucky’s broken skull is on_ his _hands._ His _hands. He killed Bucky. He killed— He’s sobbing now, tears running down his face, running down his arms, but it doesn’t clear the blood away—_

_Bucky!” he screams, and there’s blood blossoming over Bucky’s shirt._

_Bucky!” His blue eyes are going dull._

_“Bucky!” His hands are going cold._

_“BUCKY!”_

Steve jolts awake, and his breath is caught in his throat, tangled up in his ribs, fear pumping through him instead of blood—everything’s too hot, too fast, and his hands are burning, pain sparkling like fireworks up his fingers and wrists, and for one split second, his world is _fire._

He doesn’t realize he’s screaming until Wanda’s running down the hallway, half-crazed, a baseball bat raised above her head, tripping over herself in a scarlet tank and shorts. Time must jump, because the next time he sees her she’s there at his side, making these shushing noises, and when he looks up, Bucky’s standing in the doorway, his cast-bound arm tucked into a sling, just watching. His hair falls past his face, untied, and his eyes flicker with worry; for a second, Steve can breathe again.

Wanda squeezes his hand, dragging his attention to her. “Breathe, Steve, just breathe, that’s it…”

* * *

They go to the doctor that day.

It’s a hard day, Wanda notices, because Bucky tucks himself into every corner like he’s waiting to be slapped across the face. “I didn’t know,” he says softly, as Sam talks to the paramedics over the phone. “I’m _sorry_.”

Wanda asks him what he’s sorry for.

Bucky only shakes his head and pulls his sleeves over his knuckles.

He spends most of the day lingering just like that, looking like he’s been torn in half, one end tied to fear and the other to his love for Steve.

He keeps saying it: _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ …

Wanda still doesn’t know why.

* * *

It’s a hard day, because it’s the day she and Sam realize that Steven Grant Rogers isn’t invincible. They’ve been putting off going back to Dr. Yinsen for weeks now, because Steve insists it’s getting better. “There’s nothing wrong,” he assures them, even as the paramedics poke and prod at him. “I’m fine, I swear, nothing’s wrong—I’m okay—”

They take him in an ambulance; Sam rides inside with Steve while Wanda and Bucky drive close behind. “I’m sorry,” echoes Bucky, distress staining his face; wet horror glances off his features. “I…”

Wanda says it again ( _there’s nothing for you to be sorry for, Bucky, this isn’t your fault_ ), but she knows her words are falling on deaf ears.

* * *

It’s a hard day, because Dr. Yinsen doesn’t give them good news. They give Steve an MRI and immediately determine that the brain fracture isn’t improving. When Sam lists off the symptoms he’s witnessed in his friend (inability to write, burning pain, confusion, etc), the doctor simply nods. “It’s the stress he’s under,” Yinsen explains, solemn. “It’s putting pressure on his brain. He has to _relax_ , otherwise he’s never going to get any better.”

“What’s wrong with him?” asks Sam, as Steve’s gaze slides away from the people before him. “He can’t… He can’t _function_ anymore.”

Dr. Yinsen explains it, piece by excruciating piece: _anosagnosia_ , a word explaining Steve’s confusion over his condition, combined with a clarification of his deteriorating artistic ability, motor skills, and spatial awareness. All the while, Steve looks like he’s just been told the world is flat. “It’s going to take time,” says the doctor, “and lots of patience. But he _will_ recover.”

After Wanda leaves Steve and Sam alone to talk to Dr. Yinsen about future treatment, she lingers with Bucky in the hallway.

He sinks into one of the chairs there. “I fucked it up, Wanda. I fucked this whole thing up.”

Wanda kneels in front of him, watching his expression go from melancholy to miserable. “It’s not your fault—”

“Stop _saying_ that.” Acidic shame drips down his face. “You know what happened.”

“Bucky…” she starts.

“I _caused_ this, and now I…” He stares blankly at the crack in the door, and Wanda follows his gaze. 

They can still see Sam and half of Steve through the door, and Dr. Yinsen is speaking. Sam’s got his arms crossed over his chest, his face pinched tight with worry. Steve’s running his hands up and down his legs in these uncoordinated, jerky movements, like every few seconds he forgets which hand is which. “ _…_ occupational and cognitive therapy,” Yinsen is saying. “I wish I could give him more time to rest after his injury, but if it gets worse at this point, the trauma to his brain could become permanent.”

Sam’s nodding, blinking. His mouth pressed in a tight line, he holds his expression, as though accepting anything the doctor has to say will make the worst outcome become true.

“I think,” continues the doctor, “you should think about separating.”

“No,” Steve interjects suddenly, the first thing he’s said in a while. “I won’t leave him.”

Bucky quickly looks away, and he makes this small noise, so pained and quiet that only Wanda and Sam, who’s standing right next to the door, can hear him. Sam’s shoulders drop, and he lets out a sigh through his teeth before nudging the door shut with his left hand, rendering the rest of their argument muffled.

“I’m making it worse,” says Bucky, picking at his cuticles. “I’m making _him_ worse.” 

“Bucky, don’t say that.” Wanda puts her hand out; Bucky doesn’t take it. “Dr. Yinsen said he’d get better with time—”

“If he lowered his _stress!_ Why do you think he’s fucking stressed, Wanda?” His voice tears, shredded raw. He looks...flayed. Stripped. Every layer peeled away. “Me. It’s _me._ It’s…” He grinds his palms into his eyes. “Fucking Tuesdays.”

* * *

Wanda and Bucky visit Dr. Njordsen after that. They’ve gone a few times, around once a week, since everything happened, and she usually just updates his medication and checks on his physical injuries, but this time, the first thing she says is, “How are you feeling, Bucky?”

“Fine,” he responds, and Wanda shoves her hands into her pockets.

She tries to convince him to go see someone, like everyone’s been doing, like Wanda and Sam and Steve keep doing, but he just shrugs and mumbles and looks away until finally she gives up.

She changes his medication again, and finally, god, _finally_ : “Mr. Stark,” she begins, “had to adjust some of the attachments on your prosthetic to adapt to the shape of your amputated arm, does that make sense? But he’s completed the adjustments, and you’ve healed well enough…”

She leaves the room to retrieve the arm, and when she hands it to him. It’s so much heavier than he remembers, and it’s been polished; it shines with this wonderous gleam, or maybe he just thinks it does, and his breath snags in his throat. It melds to his skin just like he remembers: a perfect fit. 

It feels like Steve.

It feels like home.

He starts crying again.


	8. still i find you there (next to me)

Bucky finds Steve sitting at Sam’s kitchen table. Sam and Wanda are outside at the café across the street, _discussing things_ , as they put it. It’s just the two of them. Bucky and Steve. Steve and Bucky. It’s something Bucky thinks about a lot now, the idea of _them_ instead of just one or the other.

Steve’s staring at the pill bottle in his hands, turning it over and over in his hands like it’s some kind of alien entity. It’s a new medication that Dr. Yinsen prescribed for him, something that comes in thick red pills and a pale blue bottle. He’s got two medications now, nothing like the stack of prescriptions on Bucky’s nightstand, but still.

Steve bites his lip, spinning the bottle over again in his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” blurts out Bucky, before he can stop himself.

Steve turns around; his face softens. “Bucky…”

They’ve been so strange lately. Some days it’s like they’re in high school again, smiling and joking like there’s no tomorrow. Other days, it’s like Bucky just escaped Brock’s bruising grip, and he can’t bear to look in his direction. Today… It’s in between. Bucky edges to the other side of the counter, uncomfortable. “I did this to you.”

Without missing a beat, Steve corrects him. “Rumlow did this to me.”

It’s so strange to hear Brock referred to by his last name; the few times Bucky called him something that wasn’t _sir_ or _officer_ or _no, please, PLEASE,_ Bucky called him Brock. It’s about the intimacy of it, Bucky knows, because after years of sex work, he knows what men want. They want to be called by their first name. Either that, or they wanna fuck you so hard you can’t breathe, let alone say their name.

Bucky flexes his prosthetic fingers, opening and closing and running the carbon fiber tips along the skin of his wrist. He only got the cast off last week, but his whole arm still aches. 

He wonders, always, _always,_ if Steve still aches. If his head still festers with the memory of slamming against a hardwood floor. If his knuckles still remember the sound they made when they connected with bone. If his eyes have recovered from the sting of hot blood. 

He wonders how much Steve remembers.

Bucky… Bucky can’t remember a lot of what happened. He touches his other arm again. He can’t remember when it broke, or even who broke it. It could have been anyone. Dr. Njordsen said it was normal to have trouble remembering things. _With the level of trauma you sustained,_ she said, _it’s a miracle you’re alive at all. Don’t worry about what you can or can’t remember. Let’s focus on recovery._ Recovery. The one thing that Bucky can’t seem to manage. His memories come back in half-formed, bloody scraps, as he dreams ( _it’s that woman again, the one with dark hair and concerned eyes that keeps returning to make the hurt go away_ ), as he dissociates ( _Brock whips around at Bucky—every muscle in him tightens in anticipation—and hits him so hard that dots blacken the edge of his vision_ ), as he sits and traces the edge of the countertop with his prosthetic ( _“Leave the_ fucking _arm, James!”_ ) because _god, fucking hell,_ he missed his arm, his wonderful, beautiful arm, the arm Steve gave him, the arm Tony made for him, the arm Brock forced him to leave behind and then ( _you’re mine, James, you’re fucking mine_ )—

“Buck?”

It’s Steve’s voice, and this time his brain doesn’t focus on the low, male part of his voice; it targets the concern, the worry, the sadness, the _love_ , and it holds on, squeezing with the strength of a carbon-fiber hand. Bucky melts, just a little. Something about Steve’s face, about the love that lingers there, sinks deep into his heart and stays. 

He stays quiet, though, just nods in response, touching his hands together, relishing in the fact that he has his arm again. In this world, Bucky never gets to be in his control, and this arm is like a nudge in the right direction. His free will was handed over to any man willing to pay ( _it’s twenty for a blowjob, fifty for sex, a hundred if you want me to stay over_ ), or any man with enough malice to pull out a gun or a knife or a fist or a threat. Disgust flickers in his chest and claws its way through his organs. Before he met Wanda, before he had somewhere he could crash when things got bad, he didn’t do it for money. Sometimes, he did it just to have a bed to sleep in, or at least somewhere to lay down without worrying that someone was going to fight him for it or that a policeman would shine a flashlight in his eyes and smack a gun at his ankles and growl at him to leave.

Steve’s looking at him funny, this expression somewhere between sorrow and nostalgia. “Remember that kid who bullied me all through middle school?” he says suddenly.

Out of the dozens of things Bucky expected Steve to say in this moment, a reference to Steve’s sixth grade bully was not one of them. “Joseph?” Bucky answers.

“Um,” replies Steve, always a master of words. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell anyone he was bullying you until you came back to my place with a black eye.”

This, Bucky remembers clearly. _Why didn’t you tell me?_ asked Bucky, as they hid in Bucky’s basement, tending to Steve’s bruised face. _I thought I could handle it_ , eleven-year-old Steve sniffled, as Bucky pressed an ice pack to his face. 

_He’s eight inches taller than you, Stevie. And he’s a lot bigger, too. And you’re sick._

_You don’t have to remind me_ , commented Steve miserably. _I wish I was stronger._

Bucky adjusted the ice pack, and Steve yelped a little. _Sorry!_

_That’s okay,_ said Steve, but his heart wasn’t really in the words. 

Bucky sighed. He wished Steve could see himself the way he saw him. _Steve, I like you just the way you are._

Steve’s mouth twisted into a little smile. 

The next day, Bucky biked over to Joseph’s house (“Mrs. Russo? Is your son home?”), banged on his door, and knocked his front teeth out. It started out as a great plan, until he found out Joseph had an older brother. 

“Anthony Russo,” says Steve, his blue eyes scanning Bucky’s face, “broke your nose in half.”

Bucky touches his nose, almost absently. “I remember,” he answers.

He’s doing that thing with his hands, drawing out an invisible painting on the counter. “That wasn’t my fault then,” says Steve, each word careful and stiff in his mouth. 

“Of course it wasn’t, Steve. That kid was beating the living daylights out of you—”

“And it isn’t your fault now.”

It takes Bucky a second to understand.

Before he can say anything else, Steve’s walking out the door.

* * *

It takes so long for those words to reach Bucky’s heart. It just doesn’t make _sense_.

Steve keeps doing dumb, wonderful stuff just like that. Leaving notes for him. Telling him he loves him. Cooking him waffles. 

And somewhere along the way, something clicks.

He dreams about Alexander instead. He wakes up shivering and sweating, so disoriented that he forgets where he is. He can’t remember much, only bits and pieces, Alexander’s furious face, a gun, and Steve. There was blood and rage and earthshaking terror—but above it all, Steve, repeating, over and over, _I’m with you ‘till the end of the line._

Steve. Steve, Steve, _Steve._

Bucky finds himself in front of Steve’s room. 

He knocks on Steve’s bedroom door, the one he’s borrowing from Sam, for the first time in weeks. The door has ghostlike traces of paint on the edges, blues and reds and silvers, like Steve forgot to wash his hands before touching it. Nothing. Bucky knocks again.

A bleary-eyed Steve opens the door, mumbling, half to himself. “Sam, I already told you I’m fine, I—” He stops, seeing Bucky like he’s under a spotlight. “...oh.” 

Something in Bucky’s chest flutters. Sways. Smiles. “Hi,” says Bucky.

“Hi,” echoes Steve. “Are you—do you need anything? Is Wanda, um—do you—” His hand twitches at his side.

Bucky shakes his head. “I wanna go somewhere.”

“Somewhere…” Steve blinks, surprised, and glances at the clock on the wall. “Bucky, it’s one in the morning.”

He shrugs.

Those blue eyes move across Bucky, trying to read him. “Are you sure?”

Bucky shrugs again. He doesn’t know what’s come over him, honestly, this twist of tenacity in his stomach. He remembered something this morning, something that sticks to the forefront of his skull and refuses to go away: a feeling ( _to hear Steve’s voice again, anything to hear his voice again_ ), some words ( _we’ll have our future, okay, and no one’s gonna take that away from us_ ), and arms, gentle and warm and kind, holding him like he’s the most precious thing in the universe. “Let’s go.”

* * *

They walk to St. Nicholas Park, the one that’s closest to where Sam lives. It’s beautiful, the dark, the quiet, the stars, the way the city seems to hum with delight. And Steve, his beautiful Steve, who’s beside him. He’s got this a tiny gash on his jaw, like he cut himself shaving, and his hands are anxious.

Steve trips, as they’re passing a statue of some military general, and Bucky reaches out with his left hand, and catches him by the elbow.

The touch doesn’t burn like Bucky expects it will. It feels warm and familiar and _safe_ , so Bucky, always the selfish one, lingers. When Steve regains his footing, swaying a little, Bucky moves his hand down, brushes their pinkies, and then the next fingers, until finally he’s holding Steve’s hand.

He hears Steve’s breath hitch.

It’s something about the night, about the way Steve’s looking at him, about the warmth emanating from Steve’s palm, that makes his mouth open, lets the words pass through. “He found me when I was coming home from Jennifer’s,” says Bucky quietly, and he watches his feet instead of Steve’s face, waiting until he and Steve are in complete unison before continuing. “He said…” The words spill out of him, faster and faster, a broken dam from his abused brain. “He talked to Pierce. He was gonna… Was gonna testify for him, unless I did…what he said. He… He… He…” God, it _pours_ from him, these words that he’s never spoken out loud, these shameful secrets he was so terrified to speak about.

Steve only listens. He doesn’t say anything, just holds Bucky’s hand as they walk.

“I didn’t want to do it,” Bucky finishes, and all he feels is disgust, burning through his lungs. “I didn’t want to go, I just knew—I had to, because he… because he was still in control, I didn’t want—I didn’t _want it_ —” He squeezes Steve’s hand, and tries to stop himself from shaking.

“I know,” assures Steve, and he gives one simple squeeze back. “That—what happened, Bucky…. None of that was your fault.”

Bucky stops walking.

He’s so sick of people telling him that. “Then why does it feel like it is?” Bucky’s tone is poisoned by shame and the memory of hips grinding against him, and he can’t look Steve in the eyes.

They do it again—the talking themselves into circles, Steve trying to make him feel better about the whole thing while Bucky just apologizes—until finally Steve just sighs, gives Bucky this funny smile, and, to Bucky’s surprise, lets go of his hand. “I think… I think we need to start over.”

Bucky’s still focused on the absence of Steve’s hand. “Wh-what?”

Steve smiles again. “Trying to pick up where we left off… It’s not working. We were… We need to start again.” He rubs his hands down his pants, like he’s trying to warm them up, and then he holds out his hand to Bucky, offering it to shake. “Hi,” he says, a complete dumbass. “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.”

Bucky, bewildered, stares at Steve’s open hand.

“Now you shake,” prompts Steve, “if you want to. And then you introduce yourself. That’s how this stuff works, Buck.”

Bucky’s still more confused than he’s been in his entire life, but still he does it. He holds out his hand and shakes.

In that moment, he understands what Steve is doing. He’s giving Bucky a blank slate, like the one he gave Bucky when he first found him in that alley. _This is your home,_ he told Bucky. _And this is your new beginning._

_Prostitutes don’t get new beginnings,_ he snapped, his words ugly and blunt.

Steve shook his head. _I don’t care what the world thinks. You can be safe here, baby, you can be whoever you want to be._ Then, like he was straight out of a movie, _Your past doesn’t define you, Buck._

Steve’s giving him another chance.

Tears blossom out of nowhere, threatening to spill over, and he bites down hard, on his lip. “I’m Bucky,” he says, and it feels like a fresh start. “I’m” —a _dumb slut, a fucking whore, a stupid bitch_ — “a writer.”

“A writer?” says Steve, and his smile soars in his eyes. “That’s incredible. You’ll have to show me some of your work sometime, Shakespeare.”

Bucky can’t help but smile. “And what do you do, Mr. Rogers?”

“Well” —Steve grins— “I’ve been told I make some excellent waffles.”

And they start walking again, their hands dangling between them, and somewhere along the way Bucky takes Steve’s hand.

And Steve squeezes back, just as they start a conversation on the best breakfast places in Brooklyn, a promise: _this is your new beginning._

* * *

“Mr. Rumlow, you have a visitor.”

Brock looks up.

“That means get up,” snaps the guard. “Now.”

Brock scowls, but does as the guard says, letting him snap a set of cuffs on him. “Who is it?”

“Your lawyer,” the guard says, and he pushes Brock forward.

_Fuck_ , thinks Brock, as he breaks into a quicker shuffle. He hates his attorney–some slick businessman with a voice that’s too slippery to detect what he wants. _Fucking psychopath._ Zemo didn’t do a fucking thing to try to get Brock bail, he just watched in silence as his fucking bitch of an ex-wife stood up and gave her sob story, and he hasn’t even spoken to Brock since the arraignment. Usually, Brock wouldn’t be able to afford someone like Zemo, but Brock’s former boss at the police station and Zemo are good friends, so Zemo’s taking Brock’s case as a favor to him. But he doesn’t care how expensive this guy is, or how many people he’s helped; Brock just wants to punch him across his smug face, knock some of his teeth out.

He’s shoved into a private room where his hands are cuffed to the table like he’s some kind of blockbuster villain; Zemo enters the room seconds later, his brown hair swept to one side, his suit an impeccable navy blue, and he carries a briefcase in one hand. “It’s good to see you again, Brock—”

“Fuck you,” Brock growls. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Zemo gives him this patronizing look. “Sit down, Brock.”

“ _No_.”

“Sit,” repeats the attorney, “down. I’m your best chance at getting out of this without a life sentence, so I suggest. You. Sit.”

Brock sits.

Zemo smiles; Brock wants to rip his face apart, and anger ripples down his spine. “I’m not trying to con you, Brock. I’ve done cases with twice as much evidence than there is for yours and kept them from spending the rest of their lives in prison. I’m going to do that for you, Brock. I’m here to help.”

“If you’re here to help, then where the _fuck_ have you been all this time?”

“Making a plan,” says Zemo simply. He opens up his briefcase, pulls out two sheets of paper, and slides them over to him. “This is how we’ll do it.”

Brock snatches them from Zemo, reads them slowly, deeply, once and then again and then once more. Zemo just watches as he does so, hands folded, this satisfied smile on his face. “Fuck,” Brock says finally, and a smile stretches across his face. “And this… This’ll work?”

“It won’t keep you out of jail, Brock, but yes, it will work.”

“Yeah, but three years instead?” Brock grins. “All those fucking cops kept telling me I was gonna be in for life—this is a fucking miracle. And here I thought you were gonna throw me to the fucking wolves.”

Zemo’s expression stays still. “I’m the best defense attorney in Manhattan, Rumlow. I don’t throw my clients to the wolves.”

Brock drinks in the plan this time, takes it in big, victorious gulps. “It’s gonna fucking work.”

Zemo smiles again. “Of course it will, Brock. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

Then he takes Brock’s hand, shakes firmly, and leaves with his briefcase and his navy suit and his smug smile. 

Brock reads the plan again, and he grins. 

James is never gonna know what fucking hit him.

* * *

Sharon Carter opens the door with a gun in her hand. She doesn’t lower her weapon, even once she recognizes that she’s facing a detective and an attorney. “What the hell do you want?” she snaps.

Carol and Maria Hill exchange glances. This woman in front of them is almost unrecognizable. Her dyed blonde hair is now back to its natural, dark brown color, and she’s wearing glasses. She’s dressed in leggings and an old sweatshirt, and her usually impeccable makeup is missing. But it’s not the lack of beauty care that throws them off the most. It’s the _paranoia_. 

As soon as they answer her question, Carol calmly explaining that they only want to talk, she grips her gun tighter. “Is Brock with you?” she asks, hissing his name through her teeth.

No” —momentarily, Carol thinks, _what the fuck happened to Sharon Carter_ — “no, Ms. Carter, he’s not with us. Why would he be…” She trails off, because Sharon’s shifting, uncomfortable.

Sharon blows a strand of stray hair out of her face. “Where is he?”

It’s Maria that answers her the second time. “He’s not here, Ms. Carter. He’s still being held in prison until the trial, remember?”

“Of course I remember,” Sharon snaps, and something flits across her face. Her jaw tenses. “Then why are you here?”

“To talk,” Carol assures her. “We just have a couple things we want to go over with you.”

Finally, her face slips from deadly cop to exhausted survivor. “Fine,” she says wearily, stashing the pistol in the back of her jeans. She still glances back behind them, like Rumlow is going to pop out of the bushes with a knife and barrel in behind them.

Carol and Maria Hill enter Sharon’s small living room, side by side, with matching expressions. It doesn’t take them long to realize that Sharon’s paranoia goes beyond an average amount of fear. She knows exactly how to make herself invisible, how to make sure she knows exactly who is around her home at all times—the windows are all blacked out, and there’s a series of cameras displaying every angle outside of the house. Her laptop sits open, propped up against the wall and hooked up to the phone. To their surprise, half-filled boxes litter the floor; Carol nearly sits on a roll of packaging tape. “Going somewhere?” asks Maria.

Sharon ties her hair back into a ponytail, revealing a ghost of a bruise beside her eye; what happened? “I’m moving,” she says. “Out of New York.”

“You’re already out of New York,” comments Carol, and it’s true. Sharon lives in Westchester now, far enough away from the city that she wouldn’t have to worry about Brock finding her.

Sharon shakes her head. “No, I mean really _out_. We—I’m going to DC.”

They wait for more, but she doesn’t elaborate.

“And your face?” inquires Carol bluntly, after a couple seconds, and when Sharon’s gaze shifts to her, she wants to take the words back. “Who did that to you? If Brock’s sending someone after you…”

“I’m fine,” says Sharon, her answer like a whip. “I’ve been practicing a lot lately—didn’t duck fast enough.”

Carol’s a cop—she knows what Sharon means when she says _practicing_. Self-defense. Mixed martial arts. It doesn’t matter what it is, because in the end, it’s all the same: a way to keep yourself protected. 

Just as Maria opens her mouth to ask what she means, bawling sounds erupt from the kitchen. Sharon leaves for a moment, and she comes back with a baby on her hip, bouncing it lightly in her lap after she sits down again.

The baby… No wonder Sharon’s paranoia skyrocketed; she’s got her child to worry about now, too. Carol understands now, understands deeply and terribly as only a parent can: for Sharon, everything has changed.

“You want me to testify,” says Sharon. Sharon’s voice doesn’t waver.

Carol nods. She wonders how much sleep Sharon gets—the bags under her eyes and the way she keeps sipping at her cup of coffee tells her it’s not enough. 

Sharon gives her death glare to Maria first, then Carol. “No,” she says simply, and she rubs the baby’s back, coaxing some burps out.

Carol and Maria exchange a look, and Maria continues, “Ms. Carter, I know you’re scared—”

“Scared?” she scoffs. “Of course I’m scared—it’s not about me anymore. It’s about Hope now, too.”

“Is that her name?” asks Maria, gesturing at the infant.

Sharon stares her down; for a few seconds, she doesn’t answer. “I’m not going to testify,” she repeats, without answering Maria’s question.

“Sharon—can I call you Sharon?” She shrugs. “Listen. If we can convince the jury that this is not his first offense, that he’s a dangerous man—”

“They can take out his criminal record,” declares Sharon. “That’ll tell them everything they need to know.”

“That’s not what I mean. We need you to say what you said during the arraignment—about how he stalked you, he threatened you, he said he wanted to kill you—”

“Fuck you,” Sharon snaps, harsh, and Carol immediately stops talking. God, she forgets. She’s so blunt sometimes, a force to be reckoned with, something that scares the bad ones and also startles the good ones. 

Thankfully, Maria continues for her. “You don’t have to get up there to testify if you don’t want to, Sharon. You can submit a character reference, if that’s easier. That way, you don’t have to physically be at the trial.”

“I’m _done_.” Sharon says, and at her angry tone, baby Hope starts crying. She shushes her, standing now, rocking the infant until her wailing dies down. “Didn’t I make that clear? If anything happens…” She shakes her head. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“It’s not just about you and Hope, Sharon.”

“Yeah, I know—it’s about the Barnes kid, right?” Her gaze wilts. “I feel for him, I really do, but I _can’t._ It’s too dangerous.”

Maria presses her lips together. “Not just him. What happened to Bucky Barnes is tied to Johann Schmidt now, and if we can prove Brock’s guilty, it’ll be a whole lot easier to put Schmidt behind bars.”

“Johann Schmidt?” she echoes. “The pimp?”

Carol nods in affirmation.

“The one from the case in… 2010, right? With that nineteen-year-old… ”

“Yes,” she answers grimly.

Sharon’s squinting now, blinking as she remembers. “And he had another one in 2004? God, um… with those kids? The ones from El Salvador. Fuck, that was a hard one.” Sharon’s a former cop, Carol remembers, and a good one, too. She didn’t work on the Schmidt case herself, but she knew enough about it. “What does he have to do with anything?”

Carol and Maria exchange looks. “You didn’t know?” asks Maria. “About any of it, about…”

“About what?”

What happened to Bucky Barnes isn’t common knowledge—the only thing that was exposed to the public by the media was the fact that Bucky was found beaten bloody in his bathtub after going missing for a few days and that Rumlow is on trial for it. The Schmidt stuff… It’s all kept under wraps, for fear that Schmidt will find some way to retaliate towards anyone who’s working on his case. “Brock,” starts Carol, “took Bucky to Schmidt for three days. Schmidt found” —her throat clenches, why is it so hard to talk about this— “ _clients_ for Bucky, and for each client Brock made a profit.”

Sharon falls silent now, gears in her head turning. It’s all spinning in her brain, Carol can tell, everything about Schmidt and Brock and Bucky and the trial… “Brock… How did he even…”

“I don’t know,” admits Carol. “But it doesn’t matter. What we need from you—we need you to say something. Anything.”

“I _can’t_.”

“Sharon,” interjects Maria, “do you remember who was Schmidt’s defense attorney during the case in 2010?”

She shrugs her shoulders, patting Hope’s back as she dozes off in her arms. “Yeah, I think. European guy. Ukrainian or something. Real slimeball. I don’t remember his name.”

“The attorney’s name was Zemo,” Carol explains. A shiver runs down her back. “Helmut Zemo.”

“And?”

“And,” Maria finishes, “he’s Brock’s defense attorney for the Barnes case.”

Sharon looks like she’s been slapped. “Wh-what? How? He—he doesn’t have the money—”

“Brock’s boss, Jasper Sitwell, remember him?”

“Yes,” she says. “He was my boss, too. What an asshole.”

Carol arches an eyebrow. “He’s good friends with Zemo—offered to take Rumlow’s case as a favor to Sitwell.”

Sharon’s holding her baby close to her chest now; the baby’s head lolls against her shoulder, and she strokes over Hope’s head, slowly, gently, like she’s brushing away all of the danger. 

“You know what happened last time,” says Carol gently; as they are both cops, Carol knows that Sharon knows about the Schmidt case. Last time Schmidt walked free, the prosecution went missing. The attorney, the two Salvadoran boys, and the main witness were gone only days after the trial. Only the attorney’s body was ever found. Maria, beside her, visibly stiffens. “We need as much evidence as we can, Sharon. You’d be a huge, huge help to the case. Otherwise… You know what he’s like. He’ll go after Bucky at the first opportunity—but this time, he’ll be out for blood, just like he was with you.” 

Sharon looks strange, fear causing her to tighten in on herself, skepticism mixed with splintered determination to do the right thing. 

“We can get you into witness protection,” Maria adds, and the words sink in like cold teeth. “If you testify, we can protect you.”

Sharon hesitates before declaring, “You never helped me before.” There’s a bite of indignation in her words. 

“Before… You were a domestic violence case, Sharon.” Carol shakes her head. “As much as I wish we had the resources to protect every domestic violence survivor, it’s just not possible. We reserve those resources for the big cases.”

“Cases like this,” finishes Maria. “Cases involving Johann Schmidt.”

“We can protect you. We can protect Hope. You’ll be safe, safer than you’d ever be living like” —Carol gestures around Sharon’s living room, to the blacked-out windows, to the call tracking system, to the cameras— “this. Rumlow’ll never know where you are.”

Sharon flinches. God, Carol forgot—once upon a time, Rumlow was her last name, too. “You have to swear,” Sharon says quietly, edging towards agreement. “You have to swear on everything you hold dear, that Hope will be safe. That we’ll both be safe.”

“I swear on my life,” Carol declares, and Sharon looks grim. “I swear on my daughter.”

Sharon sits back in her seat, strands of hair falling back from her face. The bruise on her cheek is more prominent now, but she wears it with pride. “Then I’ll do it.”

They thank her, promising to contact her with more information; “We’ll move you to a new place by Monday,” Carol promises. “New name, new driver’s license, new everything. Believe me, they won’t be able to find you.”

And as Sharon shows them to the door, Carol turns around to face her again. “One last question, Sharon, if you can.”

She looks back at baby Hope, who is now fast asleep in her rocker. “Shoot.”

“Can you think of any reason why your ex-husband would drop charges against someone who had committed a crime against him?”

Sharon frowns. “No—I mean, Brock was a _cop_ . Anyone breathed on him wrong and he put them in handcuffs. He wouldn’t, I don’t think. He’s not like that. He’s always, _always_ , thinking about getting even.”

Carol watches her a beat too long, then nods. “Thank you, Sharon. You’ve been a great help.”

“We’ll be in touch,” assures Maria. “Thank you.”

And for then, that’s all.

Carol goes back to the police station. Maria goes back to her office. Sharon goes back to Hope.

For now, everything’s at a quivering standstill.

* * *

They’re watching a movie when it starts. It’s something tame—a romantic comedy, something with Drew Barrymore that Steve’s already forgotten the name of.

As soon as it happens, Steve knows. Something triggers it—it must be something that happened onscreen, but Steve wasn’t paying that much attention—and all of a sudden Bucky’s tensing up like Steve’s gonna grab him. Instead of running, though, he opens his mouth. “People love…” he starts. “They love messing with your head.” Steve fumbles for the remote; somehow, he finds the off button and turns to Bucky just as the television screen goes black. “They’ll fuck around with you, kiss you, touch you, fucking grope you and then decide you’re not worth it.” Bucky swallows and scrubs his hands over his face; too-deep melancholy ripples through Steve’s chest. “So I’d beg them, I’d beg them to fuck me so I could get the money because I—I couldn’t eat. And they all loved it, the way I”—he swallows, gulps down the shame— “submitted to them, begged for them, belonged to them…” Bucky’s eyes meet Steve’s in this explosion of grim sadness. “I know what you want, Steve,” he says. “I know what they all want.”

Steve thinks for a moment; Bucky curls in on himself, hunched miserably in his spot on the couch. “You don’t know what I want,” Steve corrects gently, “because I’m just Steve the painter and you’re just Bucky the writer, remember?”

Silence. Steve twists the remote nervously in his hands. “Then what do you want?” asks Bucky, after a moment.

“I want you to be happy.”

He grimaces, scowls at the floor; it’s clear that Bucky has trouble believing that. “What do you want _from me_?”

“A friend,” Steve answers simply.

Bucky scoffs. “Don’t fuck with me, Steve. I’ve had enough people fuck with my head.”

“I’m not,” Steve assures him. “I swear. It’s true.”

“So you never think about—about sex?” spits Bucky, and disgust drips through his voice. “A-about fucking me? Y-you—you never think ab-about” —he’s shaking now, trembling, so bad that he can barely get a word out, and _god_ , Steve wants to hold him— “how y-y-you have every other g-guy’s sloppy fucking seconds living i-i-in your h-house?” And before Steve can say anything else Bucky covers his face, miserable, broken sobs erupting from him. 

Steve doesn’t know what to do.

Eight months ago, he would’ve just waited until Bucky let him put his arms around him, rubbed his back until the crying stopped, shushed him and told him, _you’re okay, baby, you’re okay, I love you, you’re gonna be okay,_ but he can’t say _baby_ or _I love you_ without making Bucky look at him like he’s just set the house on fire, so he settles for moving a few inches closer, leaning in, and saying, “Bucky, Bucky, breathe, you’re okay…” And he hesitates. Should he say it? As Bucky’s sobs die down, he rubs his hands down his legs and says, “Bucky, what happened to you doesn’t change how _good_ you are. It means you went through _hell_ and survived.”

“It means,” chokes out Bucky, “that I’m a _whore_.” He raises his head at last, and his eyes are red and puffy. “Y-you know that’s what people—what they all think, right? That y-you’re paying me, that—that—that I’m just a—” He shakes his head violently.

“I don’t care what other people think,” states Steve firmly, and he holds out his hand between them. “The people who matter—they don’t think that. Wanda, Sam, Nat, Peggy… They know who you are.” With his other hand, he taps at his own chest. “ _I_ know who you are. You’re more than anything those fuckers did to you.”

Bucky’s voice is a strangled whisper. “They _broke_ me. They—they—” Abruptly, his voice stops, a horrible, choked sound.

It’s the closest Bucky’s gotten to talking about what happened to him when he was with Rumlow, and Steve isn’t about to push for information.“You’re not broken, Buck,” Steve promises. “You’re just hurting. And we—all of us, we’re gonna stay with you, Buck. We’re gonna make sure you get through this. It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”

Bucky, in this meek, trembling voice, so small: “You don’t have to do this, Steve.”

Steve, with all the love in the fucking world: “Buck, I could do this all day.”

There’s silence again, but this time it doesn’t thicken around them, suffocating and oppressive like volcanic ash; instead, it clears the air between them until it’s glimmering with love and hope—

Bucky, carefully, takes Steve’s hand. He squeezes, hard, like Steve is the glue holding him together, and he doesn’t let up. “I miss you,” says Bucky, and he squeezes tighter. He’s crying more, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I miss you so fucking much.”

It’s so hard to explain—this impossible distance between them, ocean-wide and paper-thin. How it’s possible to miss someone so much it _hurts_ , even though they’re right there. “I’m here, Buck,” says Steve. “I’ll always be here.”

So Bucky cries. And cries. And cries. They’re so close now, so close yet so distressingly far; Steve’s sitting across from him now, their knees inches away, their right hands clasped tightly. “I-I’m so fucking sc- _scared_ , Steve,” he sobs. “I-I-I—” He keeps crying, so hard that he can barely breathe, so hard that Steve’s scared he’ll make himself sick; automatically, Steve puts his other hand out, and it hovers dangerously close to Bucky’s shoulder.

It happens so quickly.

Bucky leans in to Steve’s hand, Steve’s fingers against his shoulder, and then he lets go of Steve’s right hand; his hand slides up Steve’s arm, a brush of skin against skin, a touch that feels like home, like warmth, like Bucky’s laugh… And all of a sudden they’re holding each other, clutching him like how the sun grips the moon, how a tree grips the earth, how the seas grip the sky, and then Bucky’s sobbing into Steve’s neck, crying like he’s never cried before, and Steve’s crying now, too, and they cry together, until it feels like oceans of tears have erupted from them, like everything that ever happened is finally coming to the surface.

They cry for the moments they’ve lost together, for the pain that pulled them so far apart. They cry for the loss of everything they thought was safe, that they have to rebuild again from the ground up. They cry for the suffering that continues as they fight the men who tore their lives to unrecognizable shreds.

They cry because after all this time, after all the pain and the fear and the horror, they still have each other.

For the first time in months, Bucky can taste the words in the air before Steve even has to say it: _I love you, I love you, I love you._

The embrace stretches into years, time that swallows every Tuesday and spits it back out. Bucky’s never felt so _safe_ . He’s _safe._ It’s something about the way Steve rubs the top of Bucky’s back in these slow, soothing circles, how he lets Bucky sob into the crook of his shoulder. It’s something about the way Steve holds him, just tight enough to keep him grounded, but not so tight that it hurts.

“I remember all of them,” Bucky says finally, once their tears have dried into salty smears on their faces. His words are muffled by Steve’s shirt, and his arms are looped around Steve’s neck. Each word is excruciatingly tight, like every syllable is a stab wound by a double-edged knife. 

The words hang between them, miles and miles of unanswered questions and deep shames, and after a decade of waiting, Bucky continues. “I can’t…” He whimpers, this small sound that Steve knows means he’s remembering something, and his voice drops to barely a whisper. “If I… told you what happened… what they did to me… You’d never forgive me. You’d…” He cuts himself off, curls into Steve’s arms.

Steve holds him, breathes in the sweet smell of _Bucky_ , of _love,_ of _home._ “I’ll always forgive you.”

Bucky lets out a wretched sob. “Steve…”

“Always.”


	9. good things (fall apart)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick warnings for trauma, PTSD, mentions of rape and child abuse

Pietro fucked up; he fucked it all up.

When he looks down, there are spots of blood on his hands and his vision twists, warps, tunnels, as the man in front of him shifts. He scrambles through his thoughts, picking them apart, scouring for why the  _ fuck  _ he’s standing half-dressed in someone else’s bedroom, why the other man’s frantically pulling his pants back on, why there’s pain pulsing through his face, and what’s going to happen next. The pain, the exposure, the blood, the near-dark room with moonlight filtering in, the covers kicked to the side—it’s so familiar that Pietro’s muddled brain sobs, half in routine terror and half in jumbled relief.

And then the man moves towards him, hands outstretched— _ come here, little boy,  _ said a man, his hard eyes dark,  _ or I’ll have to punish you _ —and he’s saying something; his face twists into something Pietro knows— _ Johann, Johann, Johann— _ as his voice bubbles over into unchecked fury, a volcanic eruption of boa constrictor hands and  _ please, no, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be _ —

Pietro screams.

* * *

**TWO DAYS EARLIER**

Pietro wakes up slowly. Nighttime tends to be this thing that grips him by the hips, slipping a cold hand around his neck and squeezing, but lately… He’s been with Tony and Pepper for a while now, and in the past couple weeks he’s had these scattered nights of calm, of what feels like  _ safety.  _ It’s unfamiliar, but he loves it, relishes in it. He puts on clothes that he bought on a shopping trip with Pepper, a gray T-shirt and a green sweatshirt and gray sweatpants that he knots tightly around his waist. 

When he gets downstairs, he feels  _ good.  _ Pepper’s dressed a little nicer than usual, in a white pantsuit and a red blouse, and she’s laughing when Pietro enters the room. Her eyes light up when she sees him. “Hey, honey, you want pancakes or eggs or something? Tony really outdid himself this morning.”

Pietro nods, sits down at the kitchen counter, and checks the time. “It’s early,” he comments, nodding at Tony and putting his hood up. Usually Tony’s up late in the morning, getting up around ten or eleven because of his late nights in the lab.

Pepper smiles. “Tony woke up to make me breakfast before I left.”

_ Left?  _ Pietro’s half-smile falters. “Where—where are you going?”

She blinks. “We talked about this a few times, honey. I’ve gotta go for a couple days for work—I’m going to Beijing?”

Vague, muddled memories swirl in his head, but nothing sticks. He nods noncommittally, even as a pit of dread sinks in his stomach.

The next few minutes pass with a strange, metallic taste in the back of his mouth. Pepper’s left once or twice, but never  _ overnight.  _ Tony piles food onto his plate, and Pietro, like usual, takes it into a hidden corner to eat it away from sight, far enough that he doesn’t have to hear Pepper and Tony’s conversation. When he returns with his empty plate, he takes it to the sink and starts to scrub furiously with soap and a sponge. He doesn’t look at Tony, but he can feel his presence in the room now like an anchor. What will Tony be like, he wonders, without Pepper there? 

A hand turns the water off, another takes the plate from his hands. “Pietro, honey…” It’s Pepper, and she hands him a towel to dry his hands. “I’ll be back Friday morning. Don’t worry, it’s not for long.”

He shrugs his shoulders.

She sighs, this soft smile gracing her lips. “When I get back, we can take another trip to that trail you love, how about that?”

He stares at her. He shrugs again.

Pepper watches him for a moment before saying, “I’ll be back before you know it.” And as she turns around, moving towards the door, something inside of Pietro twinges. 

He reached for Pepper’s hand, grabbing her wrist as she’s turning around. She stops immediately, half-turns to look at him, frowning with concern, but no words escape him; his throat clenches.

“What’s wrong?”

He can’t say it;  _ don’t go,  _ he wants to tell her, or maybe  _ please don’t leave me with him,  _ but nothing comes out of his mouth. 

So he lets go, shrugs his shoulders. Doesn’t look her in the eye.

Pepper watches him for a few moments, and Pietro squirms under her gaze like an ant under a microscope. “If you need anything, anything at all,” she reminds him, “you can call me, okay?” 

He nods.

And then she goes.

* * *

Recovery is slow. Brutally, incomprehensibly slow, like drowning in molasses. 

Steve’s been trying to help Bucky, and Bucky does his best to help himself. They’ve started over, and that’s the best part. Bucky hasn’t touched him since that night, but at least he doesn’t run for the hills every time Steve enters a room. He’s started to say things, too—nothing about what happened that night, but other things. Little things. 

They’re out at lunch one day, at a little sandwich shop close to where Sam lives, only a couple blocks away. “Pick whatever you want, Buck,” says Steve, as Bucky shuffles awkwardly behind him in line. “You know my money’s yours, too.”

Bucky mumbles something with turkey that the cashier seems to understand; once their food comes, Steve finds Bucky’s doing  _ that _ again, that thing where he stares vacantly at something until it disconnects him from reality, so he taps at the table. “Bucky?” he prompts gently. “You okay?” He resists the urge to say  _ baby  _ or  _ sweetheart  _ or anything like that, because they’re not together like that anymore. It doesn’t bother Steve, even though it probably should; all he cares about is that Bucky feels safe. Seeing him like this, outside of Sam’s house without withering beneath others’ stares like a flower blistering in sunlight is progress, and  _ that’s _ what matters. 

Bucky blinks, slowly, and when he looks at Steve there’s something in his eyes—shards of glass, maybe, or reopening wounds. “Cucumbers,” he says; his eyes drift, like he’s drawing a memory to the forefront of his skull.  _ Cucumbers?  _ Steve frowns, but he doesn’t say anything. Bucky’s been doing this a lot lately. “When you found me,” he starts, “I hadn’t eaten a cucumber in four years. I hadn’t… Fresh stuff? Vegetables, fruits, all that… It’s fucking expensive. I never thought about that shit when we were younger, you know? We weren’t rich, but we never had to worry about” —something in his voice splits— “that, never had to worry about where our next meal was coming from.” He shakes his head; his jaw tightens. “When I was out there…” He doesn’t have to say  _ on the street  _ or  _ as a sex worker  _ or  _ homeless  _ or  _ being abused  _ or  _ starving _ . Steve knows; he keeps listening. “Some days, when I really… I really didn’t want to do it” —Bucky says  _ it _ , but Steve knows exactly what he means— “I’d go through the trash after all the restaurants closed, see if I could get enough to last me a day. I wasn’t that strong” —he shrugs— “and people would fight for it, so I never wound up with much. I…” His prosthetic hand opens, closes, then relaxes as he looks up at Steve. “When you first gave me food, after you found me… That was… It was…” This melancholic nostalgia in Bucky’s eyes rips Steve’s heart wide open. “It was the greatest thing you could’ve done for me. Not having to worry… I don’t know how to—how to explain… And I thought I’d have to—have to  _ repay  _ you, for—for doing that for me, but you never made me do anything. You just… You just...”

“You never have to do anything for me, Buck,” says Steve softly, as Bucky’s voice trails off.

Bucky nods, tears blurring his vision. “Steve…” He smiles, looks down at the sandwich that’s still sitting on his plate. “Thank you.”

It’s easier now, this fickle thing they call  _ progress _ , and even though Bucky still has a long way to go, it’s working. It’s  _ working.  _

It’s a realization that hits him Thursday morning, as Steve’s at physical therapy and Bucky’s sitting with Wanda and Sam in the living room. They’re looking at apartments on his laptop because Wanda says they can’t all cram into Sam’s apartment forever. “It’s not really meant for four people,” adds Sam sheepishly. 

Wanda’s going through them, mostly, because Sam’s still a little uneasy about the whole  _ Steve-Rogers-is-buying-my-apartment  _ thing, and she’s humming along to some Beyoncé playing off of Sam’s phone, swaying and clicking through apartments online.

It’s...peaceful. Hopeful. And that’s when Steve comes in, dropping his jacket on the kitchen table. “Oh, shit,” says Sam, sitting up. “I was supposed to pick you up?”

Steve shrugs. “It’s fine. I liked the walk.”

The morning is slow, sunlight filtering through the windows, and when Bucky sees Steve, suddenly he knows. “Can I… talk to you?” he asks.

Steve immediately nods. “Yeah, of course.” 

They go out onto the fire escape, standing on creaking metal. “I want to see Jennifer,” Bucky says suddenly, like he can’t wait to get the words out. He winces.

Steve’s face blossoms into a smile. “That’s amazing, Buck. That’s so good.”

Something surges in Bucky’s chest, something warm and sweet. He runs his shaky hands over his upper arms. “She—she—she makes things make sense, and, um, I feel—I feel like—like a— _ hurricane _ or something and when nothing makes sense, she always fixes it. I just want—I want things to make sense again.”

“I know, Buck,” says Steve, and his eyes shine with something. Sadness, maybe. Relief.

“I’m not, um…” He shuffles his feet, kicking at the carpet. “I’m not going to talk about… about it. I just want to talk to  _ her _ . She… She…” Steve watches him. “I  _ need  _ to talk to her. Just… Will you come with me?”

That crease between Steve’s eyebrows crinkles. “Of course.”

“‍It’s just… If she… If she doesn’t want to see me, if she… If she doesn’t—I don’t know—I don’t know what I’ll do. I need you there.”

Finally, he looks up, meets Steve’s blue, blue eyes. Steve smiles. “I’ll always be there.”

* * *

The preliminary hearing looms, this vicious, blood-covered  _ thing _ staining the horizon, and Maria Hill and Carol Danvers frantically try to prepare for it. It’s nothing like the real trial, but it’s important enough that they need to get a shitload done. Finally, the witness list has been finalized. Rumlow’s lawyer, Zemo, submitted his about an hour ago, but before submitting hers, Maria Hill invites Carol Danvers to her office to go over it; Carol is more familiar with the Barnes-Rumlow case than anyone, after all, and she wants to make sure she didn’t miss anything. It’s due in two days, so they’d still have time to gather more witnesses if needed. “So far,” Maria explains, passing a sheet of paper to the detective, “we’ve got eight witnesses for the prosecution.”

Carol scans the sheet. Some she expects—Sharon Carter, Peter Parker, Dr. Frigga Njordsen, the forensics expert on Bucky’s case—but a few more catch her eye. “Bucky and Steve…” she reads, the words vibrating before her eyes.

Maria nods solemnly. “Coulson subpoenaed both of them for the case—I filed a motion to overturn it, but he declined it.” 

“They’re not ready, Maria,” says Carol. Her voice is thick with emotion; Bucky and Steve are  _ wrecked  _ by what happened—she knows from her last conversation with them that Bucky hasn’t even talked about what Schmidt and Rumlow did to him yet; how is he supposed to tell a roomful of strangers and friends and enemies?

Maria looks grim. “They’ll never be ready.”

Carol inspects the rest of the list. Dr. Ho Yinsen, identified as another doctor at Mount Sinai Hospital.  _ Shuri.  _ “She agreed to testify?” she asks.

“Her mother finally became a naturalized citizen last week—I pulled some strings, hurried up the paperwork so that she could. Now that she’s a citizen…”

Carol nods in understanding. “And Laura Barton?” The name looks familiar, but she can’t think straight right now, too busy milling over the fact that Bucky and Steve have to testify when Bucky can barely walk and Steve can barely think.

“A mother who lives directly below Rumlow’s apartment.”

Carol remembers—when Steve was arrested for trespassing in Rumlow’s apartment, they interviewed anyone they could. Ms. Barton claimed to have met him in the elevator, and then proceeded to describe how she had seen Bucky come to and from Rumlow’s apartment, about some noises she heard every Thursday evening. Next on the list—Carol herself and the forensics guy from the sex crimes division named Cameron Klein. 

Now, Maria hands her the second sheet. She scans it quickly; it’s a list of the witnesses for the defense. To her surprise, there’s only a few names she recognizes: Brock Rumlow, Officer Thaddeus Ross, and Chief of Police Jasper Sitwell. The rest: Maya Hansen, Heinz Kruger, Gilmore Hodge, and Miriam Sharpe… She’s never heard of them. When she asks Maria, the prosecutor only shrugs. “I have no idea, but I have to find out. Helmut Zemo…” She grimaces. “The cases he’s done in the past have never—never ended well for the victim. I don’t know what his plan is… But I need you to find out who these witnesses are. Zemo’s got something up his sleeve—and I have to find out what it is.”

“We can’t let him get the upper hand,” Carol agrees. “I’m on it, Maria.”

* * *

Therapy. It’s now one of the many new consistencies in Pietro’s life—it’s strange, because she’s an adult telling him,  _ You can trust me, Pietro. This is a safe space. No one will hurt you here.  _ There’s so many things  _ wrong  _ with what she says, with what she does, with what she reminds him every Monday and Thursday.

Tony drives him. Pietro sits, tense, in the passenger seat, fiddling with something Maria gave him the past Monday, a yellow stress ball. He’s spent around nine weeks with Tony and Pepper, and he loves it with them, he really does. He goes running all the time now—it makes him feel  _ free _ , freer than he’s felt in years. They let him eat whatever he wants, they let him touch the television, they let him lock the door to his bedroom at night (but that doesn’t stop Pietro from propping up a chair under the door each night to prolong the oncoming nightmare, doesn’t keep him from going still with terror whenever he hears footsteps coming down the hallway). The fear that he experiences in Stark Tower is violently different from the one he had at home with Johann. Now, the fear curdles in his chest, burns his insides with anticipation; he’s still waiting for that other shoe to drop. He  _ knows  _ it’s coming, too. And now that Pepper’s gone, it’s Tony’s perfect opportunity. He wonders what kind of man Tony is. He wonders how quick it will be. He wonders how much it will hurt—

“Pietro?”

He blinks. He’s in Maria’s office now, hands clasped iron-tight in his lap, toes clenched in his shoes.

Maria watches him curiously. “Do you want to tell me what you were thinking about, or do you want to keep it to yourself?”

This confuses him, too: the  _ options _ . What does she want from him? He doesn’t say anything.

Maria holds up her hands: her right holds up one finger, the other holds two. This is something she does, too; she knows that Pietro doesn’t like talking to her, so she gives him two options and lets him express himself by picking one. 

He tilts his head at her left hand, and Maria lets it go. “Okay, that’s totally fine. Let’s try something new. Pietro, do you know what free will is?”

He shakes his head.

“That’s okay,” Maria assures him with a smile. “It’s like…when. you can do what you want. It’s when you get to choose. Can you think of some people who have free will?”

Pietro answers, “The president.”

She nods encouragingly. “That’s right. Can you think of anyone you know who has free will?”

“Tony,” Pietro says, with barely a moment to think.  _ Johann,  _ he thinks immediately after. He doesn’t like mentioning his name in her office at all; Maria always wants to pull it apart, to take his memories and slash them wide open.

“Yeah, Tony does. And you know who else does?”

He shrugs.

“You.”

She explains in words he can understand, softly and firmly until he seems to get it. “You get to make choices for  _ yourself _ now, Pietro. You can make choices now, choices you couldn’t make when you were with Johann” —he flinches— “to protect yourself, to make yourself happy, to live your best life.”

They spend the rest of the meeting talking about compassion and trust, but this… This sticks in Pietro’s mind. 

* * *

They scheduled Bucky’s appointment for one-thirty; it’s one-fifteen now, and Bucky’s bedroom is empty. Steve figures he’s just in the kitchen or with Sam or Wanda, but there’s no sign of him.

Then he tries the bathroom door. He jiggles the handle:  _ locked _ . “Fuck,” says Steve, to himself, and then he hears a muffled sob on the other side of the door. “Bucky? Buck, you in there?” Ever since they left the hospital, Bucky has been locking doors with a vengeance, so it’s not a surprise, but the appointment starts in fifteen minutes. 

He’s crying, it’s a little louder now, and Steve hears him move towards the door. But instead of opening it like Steve expects him to, Bucky slumps on the other side of it. 

“Bucky,” Steve continues, “you said you wanted to—I’m not gonna force you to go, baby, but this will be good, I promise.”

Bucky shifts on the other side of the door, sobs quietly. “G-god, I just—I—I’m  _ sorry. _ ” He sniffs, lets out this shaky, small whine. “I thought—I—I didn’t—but I—I c- _ can’t _ .”

“You  _ can _ , baby” —Steve curses himself— “I swear you can. You’re strong, so incredibly strong, and you can do this. I believe in you.”

“She—she’s gonna—she—” He cries harder, sobbing so hard that his breaths scrape through his lungs in these shallow, gaspy pants. 

Steve touches the door, places his open palm on the wood like he can reach straight through and hold Bucky. Pain is ripping through him, the same feeling he gets every time he hears Bucky cry. Tears prick at his eyes.

“I don’t think you understand, Steve,” comments Wanda, as she finds him in the kitchen Googling what to do, and now she shakes her head. “This is fucking  _ scary  _ for him.”

“Jennifer’s not gonna—”

“Do you understand how he thinks, now? He doesn’t know what Jennifer’s gonna do. He’s  _ scared _ .”

“But he—”

“Why do you think he was so scared of Nat, when he came back?” she asks sharply. “Why?”

Steve gulps. He remembers what happened—Nat came towards him and Bucky actively flinched. He’d thought about it briefly when it happened, wondering why she’d caused such a fearful reaction in him. It had vanished as quickly as it began, but Steve hadn’t forgotten. “Um, because… Because people...”

“It’s because he  _ trusted  _ her, Steve. He’s so used to people… To them taking his trust and shitting all over it, you know? His parents… He trusted them more than anyone, and they  _ violated  _ that trust by hurting him, threatening to harm you, and sending him to” —her voice catches— “conversion camp. And then, when he started… When he started working, the same thing happened, until his trust in people withered down to  _ nothing _ . Everyone he trusted—his parents, the police, the people he sold himself to—they betrayed him, in the worst way possible. That’s why he can barely trust you. That’s why he can’t trust Jennifer. Because everything he’s been through… It tells him that she’s gonna do something horrible to him.”

Steve puts his head in his hands. “I didn’t realize…” And he should’ve known, too. When he first met Jennifer, Bucky was near-frantic with worry—not just because he’d have to talk out loud about the horrors he’d experienced, but because he was afraid that she’d react to him the way his parents reacted when they found out about Steve. The way the adults at the conversion camp reacted when he fought back. The way Pierce did whenever he cried.

It made so much  _ sense  _ now.

Wanda gives him this small pat on the shoulder, making sure he’s okay, and then leaves to check on Bucky; as he listens to her talk to him through the door, he remembers all those months ago when the same situation happened. Bucky locked himself in the bathroom because he didn’t feel  _ safe.  _ Because he didn’t know for certain that someone wouldn’t hurt him, whether it was Rumlow or Pierce or Steve himself. 

Finally, Wanda returns, and her expression is unreadable. “He wants you,” she says softly, and Steve stands up so quickly that his chair squeals against the wood. He straightens his shirt, as if that matters to Bucky, and walks over to the bathroom. 

* * *

He knocks. 

The door moves slowly, Bucky pulling it open with his foot as he sits on the tile. 

Steve kneels in front of him; he announces what he’s doing as he moves (“I’m gonna move closer, Buck, it’s just me.”), just to make sure Bucky’s okay.

He’s not crying anymore, but he’s rocking slowly, his face twisted in waning distress. He looks up when Steve finally settles in front of him. “Steve,” he croaks, and the tight ball he’s tucked himself into loosens, just a little. “God, I swear… You must  _ hate  _ me.” He lets out this strange noise: a laugh, a sob, a plea.

Steve shakes his head. “I could never hate you.”

“Yeah,” Bucky scoffs half-heartedly, sadness soaking his words, “because you—you—you love me no matter what—right?” 

Steve looks him dead in the eye. “Yes,” he answers.

Bucky takes a while to answer after that, staring at the ground. “Well, I don’t think… Jennifer shares your… your… views.”

He pinches the skin of his arm with his prosthetic, keeps rocking; instinctively, Steve moves to touch his hand, pulls it away from his other arm. “Don’t hurt yourself, Buck.”

Bucky starts to cry again, and he curls into himself, an iron-tight grip. “What—how can —she’s gonna—she’s gonna  _ hate  _ me, I fucking hate me, she—she—she—”

“She’s going to believe you,” Steve swears. “She knows it wasn’t your fault. She  _ knows _ , Bucky, don’t worry. Remember what she used to tell you, when you’d worry about telling her something?”

Shaky, Bucky nods. “She said—she was on my side,” he echoes.

“Yeah. She’s on your side, Buck. She  _ knows  _ you.” Bucky stares at him, like he’s remembering what it was like before Rumlow fucked up their lives, so Steve keeps going. “You don’t have to talk about… about  _ it,  _ Bucky. You can talk about whatever you want. And if… If Jennifer says anything you don’t like, we’ll leave. Right then. But if not… I think she’ll give you what you said, Buck. You can’t live like this forever, and she makes things make  _ sense  _ for you. She’ll  _ help _ you. She cares so much about you, just like me and Wanda and everyone. She loves you, too, and she’d never do anything to hurt you.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, so Steve doesn’t either. They let the words dangle in the air, and Steve watches as after a few minutes, something sets in. It dances across Bucky’s face: hope. It fills the room, a thick fog that seeps into them, until finally Bucky speaks. It’s quiet. Hesitant. “Steve, can you—can you hold me?”

Steve melts. “Of course, of course.”

So he pulls Bucky into his arms, careful and sure, and Bucky buries his face in his shoulder. “I’ll go,” he whispers. “But please—Steve,  _ please _ , stay. If you leave, I...” He doesn’t finish.

“I’m here.” Steve kisses his forehead and rubs his back; slow, melancholy breaths escape Bucky. “I swear, I’ll stay.”

* * *

Bucky’s rape kit was mostly inconclusive—for unconscious victims, rape kit procedures depend on the hospital. At the first hospital, they’d performed it while he was asleep, collecting enough evidence to find the DNA of four different individuals on his body, but they couldn’t perform it until he had gone extensive medical procedures, enough to clear away a lot of the heaviest evidence. The second hospital, however, couldn’t do it until they had explicit permission from him, which he never gave, even after he woke up.

After twenty-four hours, Carol knew, most of the oral and anal evidence was gone. They’d might never find all the perverted fucks who tortured Bucky—but currently they had six; their most recent one is Dr. Ferdinand Lopez, a neurosurgeon living about ten blocks away from Steve and Bucky. The police station had finally found a match to several partial fingerprints found at the crime scene—he’s been recently fingerprinted to be a volunteer at his son’s school, and now they  _ have _ him.

At around three o’clock that Thursday, when Carol and Fury arrive at his home, it feels  _ different _ . The air i’s thick with something sour—guilt, maybe. Dr. Lopez and his wife have four kids below the age of twelve, one of them only two years old. She can hear kids squealing deep inside the house, and suddenly Carol thinks of Monica. Disgust gushes forth from her—how could someone  _ do _ something like this? 

She slams her fist against the wooden door three times. It’s a beautiful home, with a sprawling front porch and rocking chairs and kids’ drawings taped against the windows. “Dr. Lopez?” she calls out, squaring her shoulders. Although Carol spent yesterday afternoon finger-painting with her four-year-old and Fury has a soft spot for cats, they’re an intimidating bunch; Fury has his eye patch and his jagged scar, while Carol has her blinding glare and, as Fury calls it,  _ the walk.  _ She barrels into every room, saunters down every sidewalk with such fearlessness that people dive out of her way. And now, as the door opens and she clenches her fists, expecting to see the face of Bucky’s rapist, she instead finds Miranda Lopez, his wife, a lovely, pleasant woman; suddenly the arrest feels more like an attack than an act of justice.

At Carol’s hardened expression, Mrs. Lopez’s smile falters. “That’s my husband,” she says. “What’s this about?”

Fury clicks his tongue. “Is he home?”

She nods, trying to read his expression. “Yes, um… He’s downstairs, with the kids—why? Did something happen?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Carol assures her. 

Fury shows her a piece of paper. “We have here a warrant for your husband’s arrest, Mrs. Lopez.”

She blinks, like the idea had never crossed her mind. “He—what? His arrest?” She glances back as bursts of laughter explode behind her. 

“We don’t want to disturb everyone, Mrs. Lopez,” Carol continues. “Just bring him upstairs, nice and quiet, and we’ll bring him down to the station.”

“To—to the station?”

Fury clears his throat. “Ms. Lopez, your husband is now heavily involved in a large-scale investigation. We’re going to need him to come with us right now, or we’ll have to use—”

Footsteps, coming up the stairs. “ _ Cielo _ , who’s at the—” It’s Dr. Lopez—he’s not exactly what Carol expected: no cold eyes, no massive stature, no violent movements.

But as soon as he sees Carol and Fury, decked out in their police uniforms, he freezes; Carol knows a guilty man when she sees one. “Ferdinand Lopez,” announces Carol, and there’s this gleam of justice in Fury’s gaze. Lopez takes a step back, his face slack with shock. “You’re under arrest for unlawful imprisonment, predatory sexual assault, and assault in the second degree.”

His wife’s face turns ghastly white. “Wh-what?” she chokes out.

As Fury heads towards the man with the handcuffs, Dr. Lopez laughs nervously. “You—you’ve gotta be  _ joking _ , I mean, I’m no  _ criminal— _ ”

“You have the right to remain silent,” Carol snaps.

And that’s when he decides it’s a wonderful idea to run like hell—he grabs the edge of the nearest cabinet with both hands and yanks it sideways before spinning on his heel and sprinting towards the back of the house. Carol rolls her eyes and picks up the walkie-talkie on her belt. “Rhodes, we’ve got a runner,” she announces.

Rhodes, his voice crackling through: “Copy that.”

“Fury, stay with the wife. I’m going around the front. Rhodes, take the back.” 

“On it.”

Dr. Ferdinand gets about ten feet into the front yard, Rhodes chasing after him, before Carol hits him with her taser and he falls beside a pink Barbie tricycle, cursing and convulsing. “Watch your mouth in front of the kids,” Carol quips, as she cuffs his hands behind his back. Pulling him up to his feet, she tells him, “Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law—” Lopez bucks back against her, straining against the cuffs, and she tightens her grip on him, kicking at the back of his knees so that he falls again. “That means stop fighting back, asshole!”

They get him into Rhodey’s vehicle; “He’s all yours, Officer,” Fury says with a mock-salute. “Have fun.”

Rhodes snorts. Lopez is shouting from the backseat, something about being a respected member of the community, red in the face. “Thanks,” he answers dryly, slamming the car door in Lopez’ face.

As Rhodes drives off with their last perp in tow, Carol and Nick get back in their car. “That’s the last of them,” he comments, “right?”

“The last one with an actual  _ lead _ ,” she corrects. “We’ll never find all of them.”

Fury nods. “But what we can do is find the rest of those witnesses, see what the hell Zemo’s doing with them.”

Carol turns on the car, whips the car out of its parking spot. “Then let’s go find them.”

* * *

They’re in a cab—Sam’s car is in the shop, and neither Steve or Bucky have recovered enough to drive. Bucky is still, and Steve squeezes his hand to bring him back to life. “I’m right here,” he reminds Bucky. “No matter what happens, I’m here.”

Bucky forgets that as soon as they step in front of the elevator—it feels like a death trap, it feels like Brock wrapping his thick arms around him in the elevator ride up to his apartment, slipping his hands into Bucky’s pants, squeezing him so hard it hurt. Bucky cried out, and then Brock clamped his other hand over Bucky’s mouth, pulled him in so he was flush against him.  _ One fucking word,  _ Brock warned, and Bucky whimpered as his grip tightened,  _ and I swear I’ll rip your dick off myself, are we clear? _

Bucky’s heart pumped fear instead of blood, icy fucking terror ripping through him, but he nodded into Brock’s hand, because everything was spinning and he wasn’t sure if he was going to have to go home with bruises on his face and he didn’t understand why the universe decided to bring this  _ monster _ back into his life, and when the elevator doors opened, Brock shoved him through the doors and grinned viciously, that sick fucking grin he only saw in his nightmares, and growled,  _ oh, you’re all mine now, James, get on the bed _ … But when Bucky froze in terror, when his bones refused to move towards the man that had split him open and carved him into little pieces, he reared his arm back like he was about to hit him, waited until Bucky flinched back into a shaky, cowering mess, and then  _ hit  _ him anyway, backhanded him across the face _ — _

—a steady voice: “Bucky?”

It takes him a second before he can realize where he is—standing in front of the elevator, his entire body wound tight like a drum, because he’s  _ waiting,  _ just waiting, for something to happen.

But the voice isn’t Brock’s. It’s Steve’s.

“Breathe, Buck. Just take a deep breath, okay? We’re in Jennifer’s building. We’re, um—”  _ Steve _ , thinks Bucky, and his terrified brain stops shivering quite so violently. “You’re wearing that sweater I got you for Christmas? The blue one that, um—matches your eyes?”

The comment is so wonderfully  _ Steve _ that Bucky blinks, coming back to his senses. “Can we, um” —he shoves his hands deep into his pockets— “take the stairs?”

Steve doesn’t say  _ but she’s on the seventh floor _ or  _ but your legs are still healing  _ or  _ but I have trouble walking up stairs _ . He says, instead, “Of course.” He knows, somehow, that this is what Bucky needs right now. 

God, Bucky loves him. So he says it, just as Steve helps him up the first stair, one hand gentle on his elbow. “I love you.” It’s a goddamn whisper, but it’s there. His heart feels like it’s about to tear itself from his chest.

Steve smiles, helps him up the next one. “I love you, too.” He says it like it’s the most simple thing in the world, like he didn’t just flip Bucky’s world on its head. 

* * *

It takes them a long time to get up all seven flights of stairs—with Steve’s debilitating brain damage and Bucky’s still-healing legs, they have to take each step slowly. There’s a few blunders here and there—by the time they get up the stairs, it’s a few minutes past five o’clock, and there’s someone else inside of Jennifer’s office. It’s not like Bucky didn’t expect someone else to be there, because they’re three and a half hours late, but it’s still a strange feeling. Her door is soundproof, so he can’t hear what they’re saying, but he can see the other person inside, clearly—it’s a man, Asian and muscled and older than Bucky by at least ten years, and he’s got his head in his hands. 

Startlingly, Bucky remembers something that Jennifer told him, months and months ago, when he’d told her people like him couldn’t be a victim.  _ Anyone can be a victim,  _ she told him.  _ Even the people you least expect. _

The man sitting across from Jennifer doesn’t look like Bucky—he looks like a family man, someone strong, with a good job and a wife and two kids and a picket fence. He looks…  _ normal.  _ So when the man looks up and meets his eyes, and Bucky sees the same irreparable  _ brokenness _ inside of them that he feels inside his soul, he reels in shock.

Steve tugs at Bucky’s arm. “Come sit down, Buck. Let her finish with him.”

Bucky doesn’t move. Something about the man’s eyes keeps him rooted in that spot, even once the man looks away and starts talking to Jennifer, pointing at Bucky through the door. Jennifer turns her head, startled, and sees him. Before Bucky can even grasp what’s happening, the man walks out of Jennifer’s office and looks him dead in the eye. 

Steve’s standing now, standing just behind Bucky like he’s ready for a fight. “Are you Bucky Barnes?” asks the man, with Jennifer hovering in the doorway behind him.

Uncomfortable, Bucky shuffles his feet. Hearing his full name out loud makes him think back to all that Pierce shit, when he’d see a man with blonde hair and a suit and he’d go mad with terror. It makes him think of Zola, pacing in front of him like he’s a dog who shit on the carpet, asking, mockingly,  _ Who assaulted you before, Bucky?  _

He shudders. “Yeah,” he manages. 

The man gives him a smile, twists the wedding band around his finger. “I’m Jim. Um… I just… Thank you.” He clears his throat. “What you did with Pierce?” Bucky looks down; the name rings in his ears, this massive noise that turns his brain into liquid fire, and it takes physical effort to tune back in to hear what Jim is saying. “...you’re so  _ strong.  _ I never would have had the courage to speak out about what happened—to me if you hadn’t done what you did.”

Bucky, taken aback, blinks at Jim. People used to do that, come up to him, talk about the Pierce case—usually Steve gave his notorious  _ fuck-off  _ glare and they’d scatter away, but there was always the occasional glassy-eyed victim who’d shake his hand and stammer out a  _ thank you  _ before scampering away like a kicked puppy. 

Jim says it again (“Thank you.”), and then smiles. “I’ll be on my way, then,” he says simply, and before anyone can protest, he slings on a baseball cap and heads for the elevator. 

Now it’s just Steve, Bucky, and Jennifer.

Bucky swallows.  _ Fuck.  _ “Sorry I’m late,” he says, instead of the other million things he could have said. 

Jennifer presses her lips together tight, holding back this enormous smile. A smile… That’s not the response Bucky thought he’d get from her. “That’s okay, of course that’s okay. You wanna come in?”

Bucky looks back at Steve, who gives him this small nod. His throat squeezes like a vice—he nods anyway, despite every cell in his body telling him to drop everything and run. 

“Do you want Steve with you, or...?”

Bucky stares at Steve, the one person he loves with all of his heart and soul, for far too long. Then he shakes his head, staring at the ground. 

“Okay,” she says, even softer. “Come on in, then.”

He follows her inside. It feels like a trap, a goddamn trap; she sits down in her seat, but he lingers by the door, hesitant. He coughs, once, into the crook of his elbow, and then winces. “How much do you know?” he asks, fatally quiet.

“Enough.” She tilts her head. “Enough to know that you are incredibly, remarkably brave for coming here today, Bucky.”

Shame rushes into Bucky’s face, and he resists the urge to cover it by tightening his arms around himself. He can’t find any of the words he wants to say to her—everything swirls into blackened needles in his brain, pinching and poking and stabbing until he’s littered with bloody holes. Everytime he opens his mouth, he starts  _ thinking _ , every disgusting thing he did in the past few months coming to the surface. So he closes it and prays Jennifer fills the silence.

She does. She starts like usual, asking if there’s anything specific he wants to address before she starts, and he shakes his head. He can’t start, not when every muscle is ready for her to scream  _ get the fuck out of my office, you lying slut!  _ But she doesn’t mind at all. “We don’t have to talk about what happened,” she says. She’s always been gentle, but this... _ softness  _ she possesses right now is new. She’s not babying him, she’s just… mellow, like a lightbulb dimmed so his eyes don’t have to adjust to such a painfully bright light. “I think talking about that would be distressing, to say the least.”

Bucky nods, still standing beside the couch; if he sits down, he knows, he’ll be done for.

“I think it’d be good for you to talk about how you’re feeling right now. It doesn’t feel like you feel safe right now, and I don’t want to talk about anything until you feel safe again. Is that okay?”

How he’s feeling. Now. Seems manageable. He nods.

“Is there anything I can do, right now, to make the room feel safer for you?”

Bucky asks her to open the window. He asks her not to write anything down. He asks her not to raise her voice. It makes him feel better—remotely—but it’s not enough. He still feels like Jennifer’s about to set the room aflame, like the smile on her face is about to vanish, replaced with a cold, hard grimace, and she’ll snarl out,  _ Bullshit!—don’t lie to me. How long? _

“Take some breaths for me, Bucky,” he hears; and he realizes that all the air in his lungs is trapped like poisonous gas inside of his chest. If he lets it go, the room will wither, the wallpaper coming off in rotten strips, the carpet melting into acidic muck, the ceiling caving in. “We’re gonna breathe out, then breathe in together, okay?” She starts, taking a couple breaths before finally the air hisses out of Bucky’s lungs. They sit there for a moment, the tension between them thick and unwavering, until Jennifer finally speaks. “Bucky,” she starts, “listen to me.” He curls his toes inside his shoes, like that will prepare him in any way for what she’s about to say. “I don’t know exactly what happened to you—I saw the news, but I can’t believe a lot of what they say, not really. All I know is that you were hurt so, so badly, and…” She sighs; it’s a sorrowful, relieved noise. “But I do know this” —Bucky looks up, wincing, ready for her to say something that will shred what little self-worth he has left— “it wasn’t your fault, Bucky. None of it.”

“You weren’t there,” whispers Bucky.

Jennifer nods. “I wasn’t there—but I know it’s not your fault.”

“I had a  _ choice _ ,” he spits, and tears well in his eyes. “I—” He cuts himself off. If he says more…

“Do you want to explain what you mean by that?”

Bucky’s leg is bouncing up and down so fast that it’s going numb, just a little. Memories wash over him, ice-cold. “He said—he said I had a choice.”

“Who did?”

Bucky swallows. “You know,” he says quietly.

“The officer,” she clarifies, because she knows he hates hearing his name. 

He nods—his face burns hot with shame, rippling over the newly-healed scars by his hairline. Every brain cell he has screeches  _ don’t do it, don’t do it, she’ll fucking hate you, she’ll know what a disgusting whore you are, that you asked for it, that you _ — “He said—he said I could—could meet him, every Thursday, or—or not.”

“What else did he say?”

“He said…” God, he can still feel the shock that shuddered through him after hearing that gravelly voice after so long:  _ hello, James _ and calloused hands shoved against his shoulders. “...he was asked to testify, um, against me, but…” And he explains. It’s hard, and it takes everything he has in him, but he explains. How he went to Brock’s place every Thursday, how Brock came to Steve’s apartment once, how Brock manipulated him and brought him to the motel—

Jennifer’s asking another question, but he can’t hear it. His mind is too quiet and too loud right now, and everything feels  _ wrong _ —she stops talking, instead reaching for something on the table beside her. A tissue box. She hands it to Bucky; at first, he’s confused, but it isn’t until he feels wetness running down his neck that he realizes he’s crying. He doesn’t remember doing it, but he must ask for Steve because Jennifer nods and the door opens and closes and opens again and then there’s someone warm and soft and gentle beside him, someone who asks, “Is it okay if I touch  you, Buck?” in this weary, loving voice, and Bucky says yes.  _ Yes _ . A thousand times yes.

They do it together, all three of them. “Take your time, Bucky,” says Jennifer, and Bucky shakes his head. Steve sits beside him, rubs the top of his back in slow, comforting circles, and the touch just feels like  _ love  _ against his skin and nothing else. He sobs a lot of it into the shoulder of Steve’s sweater, so ashamed he can’t look at either of their faces when he speaks. He doesn’t get specific. He could never. He doesn’t want to think about being  _ tied down on his stomach, exposed for the whole room to see, just as someone traces something up his thigh, something cold and hard and just as his muscles tense, his whole body recoiling, the man says, “Relax, sweetheart, I gotta loosen you up, be a good little slut for me”— _

And he cries. He cries so hard he can barely breathe. He cries as he tells them about waking up in the hospital, about Brock taking him back home, because in between all of this there were moments where Brock would reach over and squeeze him, times when he would grab him by the chin like he was a fucking dog, times where he’d position him in the backseat of the car like a sex doll and—

Bucky stops talking, eventually. He can’t do any more than this. Beyond there, everything gets spotty and blurry and splattered with blood and he doesn’t know if he  _ can’t  _ remember or if he doesn’t  _ want  _ to remember but it doesn’t matter.

Jennifer tells him that it’s okay to feel scared. To feel like he’s worthless. To feel like he’s broken or disgusting or a  _ lying little slut, so fucking needy, you want it, ah, fuck, take it, take it— _

“But it’s not true,” she explains, and that’s when he realizes Steve’s crying, too. “You’re good, Bucky, and just because they violated you doesn’t mean that they’ve ruined you. You’re still  _ you _ . You’re a  _ survivor _ . What happened to you doesn’t make you broken, okay? You  _ survived. _ ” She smiles. “And it’s gonna take time, but… You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna get through this.”

For some strange fucking reason, for the first time in a long time, Bucky believes those words— hope flitters in his chest, real and whole and warm, and he pulls Steve into this desperate, longing hug. “I’m so proud of you,” whispers Steve, and his chin moves over Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m so, so proud of you—you did so good, Buck, so good.”

Bucky cries and cries and cries into Steve’s arms. But it’s good crying this time, the kind that shoves his pain out and fills his heart with grief and hope and relief. 

And they sit there. Just holding each other.

And it’s enough.

* * *

Someone’s shaking her, touching her arm, and there’s a weight on her chest, so Carol jolts—a hand stills her. “Don’t wake Monica,” says her wife, as finally Carol’s senses return to her. Their four-year-old is curled up on Carol’s chest, both arms draped around her,  _ The Very Hungry Caterpillar  _ still held in one hand. She blinks. When did she fall asleep? She shakes her head wearily, trying to clear some of the exhaustion from her brain. “Sorry…” she mumbles.

Maria kisses her forehead, taking Monica from her arms. “It’s okay,” she whispers, shifting the little girl’s weight on her. “I wanted you to sleep… Just gotta put this little” —Monica’s arms loop around Maria’s neck unconsciously— “spider monkey to bed. Stay there; I’ll be right back.”

Carol feels a little guilty about all the work she has to do, but Maria’s got a point. She hasn’t been sleeping well lately—with the preliminary hearing for the Barnes trial coming up so soon, she’s been doing everything she can to prepare, tracking down suspects, interviewing witnesses, gathering testimonies, submitting evidence,  _ everything _ . She’s been chasing down Zemo’s apparent ‘witnesses’ only to find out that they were mostly average civilians; the first, Miriam Sharpe, lives one floor down from Steve and Bucky’s old apartment, but she refused to tell Carol anything. The second was Officer Ross, of fucking course, because he couldn’t keep his hands out of Bucky’s life. Then Maya Hansen, a young woman from Park Slope; followed by Gilmore Hodge, a former soldier; Heinz Kruger, a thirty-year-old man without a speck on his record; and Dr. Stephen Strange, a sex crimes psychiatric expert. It’s so  _ confusing.  _ They have  _ nothing  _ in common—age, wealth, job, region, family, friends,  _ nothing.  _ They all knew who Brock was, of course, but none of them had a visceral reaction when Carol mentioned his name. 

“Hey, baby,” says Maria, climbing back onto the couch beside her. “Wanna watch Breaking Bad?”

Carol mumbles  _ no  _ into her wife’s shoulder.

“Okay, something lighter? Modern Family?”

“Yeah.”

They watch it for a while, some episode about Halloween that makes Carol laugh. It’s strange—everything’s been so busy and dismal lately that they’ve barely had time to do this. “Maria,” says Carol suddenly, as the credits roll, “I think we should talk.”

Maria turns off the TV. “About what?”

“Our kid.”

Even without saying his name aloud, Maria knows who she’s talking about—she never sounds this somber when talking about Monica. The room envelopes the melancholy that comes with his name and stills, curtains falling limp by the windows, everything going quiet. “I’ve never been this...affected by a case, Maria. And I work in fucking  _ sex  _ crimes.”

“I know,” adds Maria. “Me, too. But we’ve never had someone who’s this close to us.”

“I’m not close to him—”

“You know what I mean. That man abused him and Bucky in horrific ways. They  _ knew  _ each other.”

Carol swallows. “Bucky tried to get him out.” Her voice is hoarse.

She blinks. “What?”

“Pietro told me, when Bucky was still missing—that was the first time they met. He…” She wants to rip Johann Schmidt to bloody pieces. “They were at some club—Bucky saw him next to Schmidt, pulled him aside when he wasn’t looking, asked him if he was okay. Told him to get out, right then and there, until Schmidt came back.” She shakes her head. Something aches inside of her. “He’s so  _ good,  _ Maria. He was trying to save people, even when he was in all that  _ pain _ …” 

There’s a hand on her back, rubbing, and Carol tilts her head so that it rests on her wife’s shoulder. This time, she talks. “He’s not like a lot of kids I’ve met—sexual abuse is confusing and impossibly hard for the mind of a child. But him… He remembers what it was like to have a loving home for the first eight years of his life—and when Schmidt took him, it tore all of that apart. He still  _ remembers _ . He know what it is to be happy, he remembers his parents, even through all of that war. He hasn’t said basically anything, but when he talks about his life before Schmidt… He lights up, as much as he can right now…” She stretches her legs over Carol’s. “It’s so good to see him happy, but it’s—it’s fleeting, you know. Whenever he thinks about something happy, he feels it, he just… He doesn’t think he deserves to be happy.”

Carol nods. “He deserves the whole world, that kid. He deserves to have happiness for the rest of his life. I’m glad he has people now—you, Pepper, Tony…”

The room’s filled with this strange glow, of mutual sadness and muted worry and a touch of fear. But somewhere, between all that—hope. “He’s getting better,” says Maria.

Carol smiles. “I know. I have to talk to him—about the case, about Schmidt—and he used to just sit there, barely say a word, whenever I’d ask him anything. He keeps thinking I’m going to arrest him. That’s what Schmidt told him, you know? He was an illegal immigrant involved in illegal sexual activity—Schmidt told him he’d be locked up for the rest of his life if anyone found out what he was doing. But last time… Last time he said, ‘Are you really going to lock him up?’” She kisses the back of Maria’s hand. “‘Cause he knows now. He knows that what Schmidt did was illegal—not him. And it’s what you’re doing for him… He’s learning how the world works. Now we just have to teach him how love works.”

“He remembers what love is,” Maria whispers, “and he knows that it’s good. But Schmidt shoved it so far down inside of him, told him he didn’t deserve it. We just have to bring it back up, we have to show him that it’s okay.”

* * *

It’s 8 am Friday morning, and Pietro wakes up to hear arguing from downstairs. Instinctively, he freezes— _ who is Johann talking to?  _ His mind runs through the scenarios until finally he remembers Johann’s not here. That’s  _ Tony _ .

He’s like Johann, in a way. The way they walk into rooms and people flock to them. The way they  watch him, for these long stretches of time. The way small things set them off.

But they’re different, too. They smell different. Johann’s up by nine, Tony’s up by ten or eleven. Johann hates seeing him eat. Tony doesn’t seem to care. 

It’s confusing, but Pietro’s doing his best to figure it out. And as the yelling escalates, Pietro tries to keep his shaking to a minimum.  _ Tony’s nothing like Johann _ , Maria told him.  _ Tony would never hurt you _ . Pepper told him that, too, but it’s so hard to believe. 

Pietro dresses slowly, in a pair of jeans and a gray sweatshirt. Pepper took him to a store nearby to buy all of his new clothes; there, he got to pick out everything he wore, which was new. Johann usually chose what clothes he wore. He pushes open the door, and the yelling gets a little louder. Trekking down the stairs, he finds two people at the bottom: Tony and a woman in a pink T-shirt and jeans like his.

He wonders what Tony plans to do to her.

The yelling becomes clearer and clearer. “—Ulyana,  _ listen _ : Not. This. Week. We want to be alone.”

The woman responds in Ukrainian, saying something about not speaking English.

“English, Jesus, why didn’t they send someone who speaks Eng—” Tony’s eyes catch on Pietro’s face. “Oh, sorry, kiddo. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Pietro glances at the woman. She doesn’t seem scared, only frustrated. “ _ Did he hurt you? _ ” he asks, in Ukrainian.

The woman, startled by his response in her language, shakes her head.

“ _ Who are you?” _

She explains, simply, that she’s a woman working for the cleaning service at Stark Tower, and that she doesn’t understand what he’s telling her to do. 

Pietro knows what Tony’s saying. He wants her not to come today. 

“ _ Can you tell him?”  _ asks Ulyana. 

He does. It doesn’t take a lot to settle the misunderstanding between the two, and once he does, the woman leaves, with a strange smile for Pietro.

Once she’s gone, Tony turns to him. “I didn’t know you spoke Ukrainian.”

“I know a lot of languages,” he replies, shrugging.

“How do you know Ukrainian?”

Pietro shrugs. “Sokovia was a Ukrainian state.”

Tony’s watching him. Pietro doesn’t like it. “And...other languages?”

He stares at the door where the woman just left. “Sokovian. English. German.” Tony’s face twitches. “Johann taught me what I needed to know. Chinese. Russian.”

“What you needed…” The older man frowns. “What do you mean?”

So Pietro says something in slow, seductive Russian ( _ do you want to fuck me? I’ll be good for you, I’ll be a good boy _ ) something Tony clearly doesn’t understand because when Pietro glances at his crotch there’s no reaction.

“What’s that?”

Pietro translates for him, his voice taking on the same manner.

Tony looks horrified. 

“Kid—” he chokes out. “That—that’s not—you—you shouldn’t—”

“It’s what I’m supposed to do,” he answers.

“ _ No _ —” Pietro flinches, and Tony’s voice softens. “I mean, no, Pietro, listen to me. It was wrong of  him to teach you those things. He shouldn’t—he shouldn’t have done that to you. It—it’s never, ever what you should do. You’re a kid. And he  _ hurt  _ you. By teaching you those things, by making you think that was something you had to do… What he did to you was  _ wrong _ , kiddo.”

His words hurt, in these whorls of discomfort that cling to his tarnished heart. Beneath the shameful grime and thickened dust, something gleams.

Before he knows it, Tony is pushing a plate in front of him—eggs, French toast, fruit—and he’s sitting down at the kitchen counter. 

Without moving a muscle, he takes a bite.

Tony smiles.

It feels  _ good _ .

* * *

The word  _ happy  _ is a difficult one for Bucky. Before his parents blew his life to smithereens, it was something simple. It was the smile in Steve’s eyes, the feel of Nat’s hugs, the smell of his mom’s cooking, the touch of Steve’s hand against his. After conversion camp,  _ happy  _ became distorted and wrong, something he grew nauseous just thinking about, something he couldn’t bear to touch without recoiling. For so many years,  _ happy  _ was an impossibility. With Steve, it became possible again. It wasn’t easy, but it was something. Step by step, they built a life where they could both be  _ happy _ again. And then Bucky went and fucked it all to hell.

But this morning, something feels different. Like his hardened heart is splitting open, light spilling through the cracks. It doesn’t feel like before, exactly, but it feels like a start. This morning, when Bucky walks into the kitchen, Steve sees him and  _ smiles _ . It’s a smile that takes Bucky back months and months, before Brock came back into their lives, back when they baked peanut butter cookies after therapy sessions and cuddled on the couch watching rom-coms until they fell asleep to the sound of rain against the windows.

The whole room smells like waffles. Something inside Bucky sighs. This smell, this  _ Steve-loves-me  _ aroma that washes over him, Brock could never touch. It feels like Steve and Bucky, Bucky and Steve, back and forth and up and down until their hearts align.

“I’m so  _ proud _ of you,” says Steve. He’s wearing that a dumb pink apron (Nat got them a matching set for Valentine’s Day) and an even dumber grin. “And good morning, I guess.”

Bucky blushes. 

“You want waffles?”

Warmth fills him. “Is that even a question?” he retorts.

Steve’s smile grows, and Bucky’s whole world glitters.

They eat in silence, mostly, but it’s that comfortable sort of silence that can only stretch between two entangled souls, the kind of silence that makes Bucky feel closer to him, if that’s even possible.

Steve breaks it first. “We should get a dog,” he blurts out.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He and Steve talked about getting a dog at some point when they were younger. It was one of those  _ things,  _ like living together and getting married, that seemed inevitable.  _ We should name him Asshole,  _ joked Steve. 

_ We are  _ not  _ naming our dog that— _

Steve whistled.  _ C’mere, Asshole! Sit, Asshole! Asshole, get over here! _

_ You’re an idiot,  _ Bucky declared.  _ It’s gonna be a girl, and we’ll name her something nice. Cinnamon or Oreo or something— _

_ She’s not a pie, so stop coming up with food names! If we had it your way, you’d name her Waffles! Roll over, Waffles! Sit, Waffles! Not on the carpet, Waff— _

Bucky shoved him off the couch.  _ I hate you. _

From the ground, Steve waggled his eyebrows.  _ Say it like you mean it, baby. _

_ You’re actually the dumbest person I know,  _ Bucky assured him, pushing him back when he came in for a kiss.

_ Yeah, but I’m  _ your  _ dumbest person,  _ shot back Steve. He climbed back into the couch, half-straddling Bucky, and leaned down to kiss him.

Bucky kissed him back, pulled away to say,  _ I’m not naming her— _ before Steve cut him off with another kiss.

Domesticity. That’s what this is. It’s such a funny concept for him. It’s like a direct rejection of Brock and Pierce and everyone who’s ever told him his life was measured in his body: how long he could stay quiet while someone’s hard hands pinned him down to a bed, how many strikes it took before he started to cry, or how many men he could fuck in a week before collapsing. With Steve, his life isn’t measured for how much he can give. It’s just  _ filled _ to the brim with trust and life and love, and somehow he looks at Bucky and says,  _ I don’t want anything from you. I just want you to be happy. _

A dog would mean the world to Bucky. It’s not about the dog itself, not really. It’s about Steve. A dog means that not only does Steve want him to be happy, but he wants to start a life with him.

It means Steve doesn’t hate him.

“Um, yeah,” says Steve, filling the silence, and his fingers twitch absently. “I just figured after we—when we finally get those apartments we were talking about—that we should get a dog, you know. Val, she’s the one who mentioned it—”

_ Val.  _ Bucky’s physical therapist. She’s a fucking amazing spitfire of a person—the first time Steve and him staggered into the building, tripping him over himself to get inside before slamming the door behind him and peeking precariously out of the window, she didn’t give a fuck that he was running or why. Instead, when he slumped against the wall, sighing in relief and rubbing a spasm out of his leg, she crouched down next to him.  _ You good, Forrest Gump?  _ she asked. 

As he realized she had no idea who she was, he started,  _ You haven’t… The news... _

Val shrugged.  _ Don’t trust the news. I find out shit myself.  _

_ Oh. _

_ Who’re you running from? _

Steve shook his head.  _ Reporters. _

She scowled.  _ Those fucking vultures. _

Bucky liked her immediately. Even in the few weeks he’s been with her, she constantly reminds him how much she believes in him. 

The words spill out of him before he can stop himself. “What kind?”

Steve blinks. His left arm is trembling now, and he looks at it like it’s betraying him. He’s got that what-the-fuck look plastered across his face. “Um—” It’s surprise, Bucky thinks. “You don’t, um—” he stammers. “We—we don’t have to, Buck—not if you don’t want to, um, it was just—just an idea—you don’t have to feel pressured—if you don’t—look, I just thought it might be a good idea, just ‘cause—she said life might be easier, for both of us, and—we always—we always said...”

“I know.” Something like a smile graces Bucky’s face. “Remember when we’d make up our own future?” Steve’s mouth twists; something painful crosses his face. “Our house and dog and kids and everything?” He bites the edge of his nail. “I know it won’t be like that.”

“Buck—”

“But I want to try.”

Steve looks like he’s gonna cry. 

Bucky swallows. He wasn’t trying to upset him—just trying to explain. “I know a lot of stuff has...happened. Um. I just… I know it’s not gonna be the same as it was. It’s hard...to think about how it was. Before. What I did…”

Steve winces. “Bucky, hold on…”

He shakes his head. If he stops now, he’ll never start again, and he has to fucking say it. “...to...to fuck it up before… I’m sorry. You deserve the whole fucking world and for some reason you wanted me in it and now you can’t even draw anymore...”

Steve’s face drops; he adds quietly, “Some days are harder than others, that’s all…”

“...and we moved out of your place just ‘cause I can’t, um—anyway, I’m sorry I did this to you, but I” —fuck, how can he say it ( _ love you)  _ when the words scrape like a cluster of needles in his throat— “want to build something with you.” More words swirl in his brain, and he grasps what little bravery he has and says them, too. “‘Cause you’re the only thing that keeps me going. You’re the only one I…”

It happens slowly.

Steve’s hand shakes so hard that his fork drops to the floor; Bucky, body still aching from recovery, reaches down to pick it up at the same time Steve does. Steve jerks himself back and simultaneous trips on the stool he’s sitting on, his foot catching, and he falls.

Bucky doesn’t see him fall. He sees a man coming at him, the sudden movement, the way his arm stretches out, and then he’s—

— _ moving backwards, step by step by step until his back is pressed against the kitchen counter. _

_ He’s shaking so hard, terror sawing through him, and he grips the counter for some kind of reassurance, any at all, that this is still his  _ home _. _

_ Brock chuckles.  _

_ Bucky squeezes his eyes shut. _

_ It’s not. _

_ “P-please,” he manages, by some miracle.  _

_ “Crying already?” Brock asks, and that horror-movie voice resonates throughout the entire room.  _

_ Bucky tastes salt. He tries to breathe, but all he takes in is a shuddery wisp of he’s-in-my-home and he forgets how. _

_ “Sweetheart, I haven’t even started yet.” His hands skim Bucky’s body, run over his face and neck. He tugs on Bucky’s mouth and fucking grins. “Shirt. Off.” _

_ Terrified, Bucky fucking shakes his head; tears and tears and more tears stream down his face. “Y-you can’t d- _ do  _ this.” _

_ Brock’s hand whips across his face. He pulls Bucky’s shirt off himself, yanking and pulling into Bucky’s torso is bare, and he pulls his arms against his chest, trembling. He can feel the scarring on his back right now like it’s fresh; Brock runs his hands down his handiwork and squeezes his shoulder, the one with Pierce’s scar. When Brock grinds against him then, Bucky’s knees go weak against the counter, and Brock takes that opportunity to flip him over. Bucky hears that jingle his belt buckle makes, and terror slices him so far open that he screams— _

_ “Shut the fuck up!” _

_ Then Brock’s hand is over his mouth, and the thought hits him like a freight train: he can’t let Brock do this, not to his home, not to the one place in the world he knows is safe. Bucky bites down—big fucking mistake—and kicks back at him. “Fucking slut!” Brock hits him so hard, over and over and over that when he wakes up he’s on the ground and his pants are gone. There’s something warm running down his back and something else in his mouth, and Bucky whimpers into it. Brock laughs. “You think you can do whatever the hell you want, James? This is what you signed up for!”  _

_ Then and there, the world implodes; this carpet is his and Steve’s, there’s a stain from when Bucky spilled his pumpkin spice latte all over that corner and Steve hadn’t been mad, not in the slightest—and now he’s naked and Brock hauls him onto the counter, one hand around his throat, and his face presses against the cold granite— _

“...okay, you’re here with me, you’re okay, you’re safe, he’s not here, it’s just me…”

Safe? He’s thrumming with fear, shivering, curled in a pathetic ball on the floor, and he knows someone’s  _ there _ , someone’s always there, kicking off their shoes and loosening their ties and caressing his scarred nub of an arm—Bucky realizes with sudden horror he said it out loud— _ my arm _ —in a clouded, quiet whisper.

“...right there, we got it back, remember? Dr. Njordsen, she got it back for you…”

The man in front of him isn’t moving any closer, isn’t touching him or hitting him or yelling at him. Bucky flinches anyway; he can still feel the counter against his cheek.

“...Bucky? I’m not gonna touch you, you’re okay…”

_ Bucky.  _ Not James. Not James.

Bucky runs his hand (hands) through his hair and tried to pull his shit together. “Sorry,” he croaks—why is his throat so dry?  _ Oh,  _ he thinks with a pang of confusion.  _ Screaming.  _ The man in front of him is Steve, why can’t he get it through his head? He’s sitting a safe distance away from Bucky, leaned up against the side of the counter, holding his leg like it hurts. 

It’s Steve, not Brock. But why does it feel so fucking similar? His body whines in protest as he struggles to his feet. “Sorry,” he repeats.  _ You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,  _ he hears answer him,  somewhere deep in his mess of a brain.

Steve shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s limps a few steps, heading for the door, before Steve speaks again. “Wait.” 

It’s almost...desperate. 

Steve tries to put his shaky legs in order, but he just ends up falling on his ass. “Don’t—don’t go.”

Bucky doesn’t move.

“Um—” He hesitates. “Are you okay?”

Bucky slumps back against the wall again, tipping his face up to the ceiling. “My head’s a fucking shitshow, Steve. I can’t—can’t do anything, can’t go anywhere, can’t remember shit, can’t even spend one morning with you without thinking about—the fucking—” He scrubs his hand down his face and tries to catch his breath again.

Steve watches him from where he sits. “That’s okay, Bucky. You’re not supposed to be completely fine, not after something so traumatizing, you’re not—” He frowns, more worry crossing his face. “You can’t remember things?”

Bucky grips the back of his neck. “Not  _ now,  _ just… Stuff from before.” Fuck _.  _ “Stuff at our old place. I remember him” —don’t say it, don’t think it— “taking me there, pieces after that, but… Wanda says I called you and you...came back for me?”

There’s a raw look in Steve that he can’t quite read. Devastation, almost. When he speaks his whole demeanor seems to change. He bites his lip. “Yeah,” he says, the word packed with grief. “I did.”

Steve  _ saved _ him. Bucky wishes he could do something—hug him and hold him and kiss him and tell him  _ I love you  _ but he can’t. And there’s a million words Bucky wants to say, but right now, he only finds the courage for two: “Thank you.”

Across the room, tears slip down Steve’s face.

Bucky wants to kiss them away.

But he stays right where he is. Safe.

  
  


* * *

“Got your coffee.” Officer Talos drops a Dunkin’ Donuts paper bag in front of her. “How’s the case going, Danvers?”

Carol’s currently at her desk with her head on her desk, arms shielding her face. She groans in response, the sound muffled by her shirt.

“Not good?” he prompts.

She cracks her neck and sits up. “Not good is an understatement, Talos. This case is going off the fucking rails.”

He pulls up a chair. “How so?”

Carol blows a stray hair out of her face. “For one, the media’s going batshit crazy for it.” And it’s true. Everyone knows about the upcoming case; it’s all over the news, especially once specifics were leaked to the press. They dubbed the perpetrators ‘The Brooklyn Six’ after the motel Bucky was held captive in. It’s an incredible story—the former prostitute who brought down a serial rapist CEO only months prior is kidnapped and attacked by six well-known figures: Johann Schmidt, New York’s biggest pimp; Brock Rumlow, a police officer with a history of domestic violence; Dr. Ferdinand Lopez, a neurologist with four children; Wolfgang von Strucker, a soldier home from Afghanistan; Jack Rollins, a security guard; and Georges Batroc, a French businessman. “Everyone’s trying to talk to one of the six, Bucky, Steve, me… It’s exhausting.” She tosses a pile of papers his way. “And people keep coming forward, so many victims—of Schmidt, mostly—but there’s so many that it’s impossible to keep up. They see Bucky on TV, and they think—shit, if  _ he’s  _ testifying after going through all that, then I can, too. And I’m glad people are coming forward, I really am, but it’s too  _ much _ . And Bucky… It’s gonna destroy him, it really will.”

He shuffles to the next sheet of paper. “But he… Oh.”

She nods into her hands.

“He’s not willingly testifying.”

She nods again. “And with Zemo defending Rumlow—this is gonna be a shitstorm, Talos.”

“Zemo? The guy from the Schmdit case?”

“Yep.”

Talos sits back. “Fuck.”

“Bucky’s not ready, Steve’s not ready… And Zemo’s gonna take advantage of that. He knows just how to manipulate people, just how to make people explode.” She sighs. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ve got this, Carol,” Talos assures her. “You can do it.”

* * *

Bucky can’t do this.

They’re sitting in Maria Hill’s office; Bucky stands by the door, hovering a few feet away from Steve and Maria. He does that a lot, Steve knows, standing by the door with his hand twitching towards the handle, and when he explained it to Jennifer when he met with her for lunch, she simply nodded.  _ It’s common for victims of kidnapping to feel trapped, even when they’re completely safe.  _

They’ve been working with Maria for a couple weeks now, planning for the trial; every time Maria even hints at Bucky testifying, Bucky just stops talking. Today, after Maria tells them that Brock’s charges against Steve have been dropped, she mentions testifying again, but it’s accompanied by another word:  _ subpoena.  _

Steve knows what that means—as he looks at Bucky and sees the lack of understanding in his gaze, he winces. Bucky never had any education after high school, and most of the people he knew afterward had barely a GED or less. They didn’t run in to subpoenas and witnesses and evidence. They ran from the law. “So… You’re saying...”

“Yes,” interrupts Maria, and she looks helplessly to Bucky, who’s inching ever closer to the door handle. “I’m sorry, Bucky, but that means you have to testify.” She swallows. “For both cases—Schmidt and Rumlow.”

Bucky goes deathly pale. “Wh-what?” he echoes, and his voice slides into a wheeze. He coughs, pressing his left hand to his chest. “I—but I—”

“There’s gotta be a way around it,” Steve states, firm. “He’s—can’t you explain he’s not ready?”

Maria shakes her head. “It’s the judge’s decision, not mine, and he already filed the forms. Besides, the court doesn’t care about how ready he is—they just want all the evidence possible.” She nods her head at Steve. “And they want you, too, Steve. I filed a motion to keep them from making you two testify, but Coulson’s sure on this one. He won’t budge.”

Beside him, Bucky’s got his hand on the doorknob. “Maria, come on,” Steve says. “He can’t.  _ We  _ can’t. Isn’t there enough evidence? Get—get the hospital files, the—the other evidence! Use that!”

Maria grimaces. “We are, Steve. We need all we can get to lock them up. Without you both on the stand, our chances of winning go down. We need you.”

“Just me, then,” he presses. “I’ll testify. I found—” He looks at Bucky; his voice drops. “I saw  enough.”

“But you didn’t see it  _ happen _ , Steve. They need the victim’s testimony most of all.”

“Maria—”

“Steve.” His head whines with pain. “I’m sorry. It’s out of my hands—you and Bucky have to testify. End of story.”

When Steve looks over, Bucky’s already gone.

* * *

Things are going well.

Pietro and Tony are on the couch, halfway through the first season of  _ The Office _ , when Tony suddenly winces, letting out this small grunt of pain. He grinds his palm into the left side of his head, shutting his eyes.

Pietro knows the signs. It’s a migraine.

His throat clenches. It can’t be—it can’t be _. _

Tony lets out a small groan and squeezes his head like it hurts. “Can you—can you dim the lights for me, kiddo?”

Pietro gets up, just like Tony asks, and dims the lighting for him. As the room darkens, Pietro’s mind does, too. He thought, just for a second, that he was  _ safe  _ here.

But he was wrong.

_ Johann’s eyes are closed, but he’s still talking. “Pleasure,” he says, frowning, “is a natural pain reliever.” He’s lying on the bed on his back. Pietro is obedient, like always, sitting beside him. Johann opens his eyes and reaches a hand up, stroking a finger down his jaw. He traces around Pietro’s mouth. “Did you know that?” _

_ Pietro feels sick. He shakes his head. _

_ Johann chuckles, then winces. It’s clear he’s still in pain. “Of course you didn’t, you stupid, stupid boy.” He tightens his grip on Pietro’s face. It’s too tight. Always too tight. Like Pietro’s going to run away at any second. “Well, it’s true. So come here.” _

_ Pietro doesn’t move. _

_ “Come here,  _ liebling _. Get to work.”  _

Liebling. Favorite.  _ Because Pietro was his favorite. _

_ His voice drops dangerously. “Now, Pietro.” _

_ Pietro wants to run away. But he does what Johann says anyway, crawls down the bed and lets him push his head down.  _

_ “That’s it—ah, yes, that’s it…” _

Pietro staggers backwards. No.  _ No.  _ Now Tony’s got him alone because Pepper’s gone, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants. And now Pietro  _ has  _ to, because if he doesn’t…

Tony’s not looking at him now, but Pietro knows that the desire is there. It’s always there. It’s always fucking there. Tears prick at his eyes, and he braces himself against the wall because his knees are shaking so much. He thought once that he could be  _ clean  _ here, that maybe there was a possibility it wouldn’t be the same, but it is.

He knew it all along.

* * *

For the rest of the night, Pietro’s on autopilot; he hides in that storm shelter in his mind and waits. He knows what’s coming. He knows what he has to do. Terror floods him, so heavy and thick in his bones that everything feels like it’s underwater. Time is a blur, like a tearstained face running with makeup. It gets darker and darker and darker until the clock above the kitchen counter says Saturday and Tony’s gone to bed in his room. For some ‘peace and quiet’ he claimed, like Pietro didn’t know the underlying message.

Pietro paces and paces and paces.

After this, it’ll be over. This dream of a home. Of a family. Of a place where he didn’t have to wait in bed, quivering with fear, for a man to come in. It was a dream he had when he was back in Sokovia, but now...

He finds himself at the foot of a bed. Tony’s there, half-asleep or maybe fully asleep, but it doesn’t matter. He can still see that wrinkle in his forehead like he’s in pain.

He doesn’t really know how he got there.

He hears Johann’s voice in his mind ( _ now, Pietro _ ), and he knows that if he waits any sooner he’ll be punished.

He knows what to do.

He hides in the back of his mind.

And he starts.

* * *

Tony wakes up with a jolt because there’s a hand on him and a small figure on the bed over him—he jerks away so fast that his knee hits something and the figure yelps like a kicked puppy. Startled, he twists in his blankets with several undignified noises all of a sudden he’s on the ground. His pants are at his ankles; his boxers are at his knees. What. The.  _ Fuck. _ And the figure in front of him—moonlight glimmers in his white-blonde hair.  _ Pietro. _

There’s blood spilling from the kid’s nose.

Pietro looks down at his hands, blinking rapidly, like he’s just realizing where he is, and then looks back up at Tony. The devastated, half-present sheen in his eyes shatters Tony.

Oh,  _ fuck _ .

He struggles to stand, shoving everything back on while saying, “Pietro, Pietro—” But he doesn’t know what to say after that, so he stops, tripping over himself while yanking his pants back over his hips, and finally he reaches out towards him, saying, “Listen, buddy, you’re okay, just lemme—”

And in that moment, as Tony takes another step forward and Pietro’s whole body seems to tremble, Pietro opens his mouth and screams.


	10. i'm not scared (of the dark)

It’s so hard to think with the terror racing through his chest, but somehow his brain spits out one word: _Tony._ He remembers. Tony had a migraine and he… God, he fucked everything up so bad. Pietro does the only thing he knows how to do. 

He runs.

He bolts into his bedroom and locks the door just as the man—Tony, he reminds himself—stumbles after him, tripping over the carpet. He’s just like Johann, Pietro knows, and this will only end one way.

Tony knocks on the door, but it sounds like a cannon instead of a fist. “Pietro? Kiddo?” He sounds frantic. “Let me in, okay? I just wanna make sure you’re—you’re okay! Are you—Pietro? Pietro, come on!”

Pietro runs his hands through his hair, presses his hands into his eyes—it feels like his whole world is bursting into flames. He felt safe once, in Pepper’s smile and his own locked door and Tony’s words of encouragement, but he should’ve known it would all come crashing down.

He grips his hair by the roots.

Tony’s knocking gets louder.

He knows there’s only one thing he can do.

Run.

* * *

Tony realizes, somewhere between yelling Pietro’s name and knocking on the door, that he’s never heard the kid scream before. He’s heard him whimper in his sleep, has seen him actively flinch more times than he could count, has seen him draw back into his mind, but he has never heard him scream.

It’s a horrific sound, like purified terror, and it echoes in Tony’s ears like a broken tape.

Tony doesn’t know what to do.

If there was a handbook to parenting, this wasn’t in it. He can’t even form the words for what just happened—it’s so—so—

He knocks again. “Pietro, buddy, come on, open this door!”

He doesn’t mean to sound so agitated, really, but he’s officially freaked out. He jiggles the doorknob. He saw the blood coming down Pietro’s face; he needs to make sure the kid’s okay.

He has to fix this.

After too long of Tony calling out the kid’s name into silence, he busts out his spare key to Pietro’s room and shoves the door open himself. At the sight, Tony’s heart drops out of his chest.

The room’s empty.

The windows open.

Pietro’s gone.

* * *

  
  


Steve wakes to his cell phone vibrating against his chest. He’s sprawled out on the couch, and Bucky’s asleep in a sitting position on the floor, head leaned back against Steve’s calf. They were watching Bucky’s favorite movie, but they must’ve fallen asleep. His phone’s still buzzing, and blearily, he picks it up and squints at the name to see if it’s worth disturbing Bucky’s sleep.

Tony.

Why the hell is he calling at two in the morning? He ignores the call and tips his head back onto the pillow, but the phone keeps ringing. And ringing. And ringing. Not wanting Bucky to wake up, Steve picks up, grumbling, _“_ What do you want?”

There’s a relieved huff of air on the other end. “Thank _God_. Steve—I have to talk to Bucky. Now.”

The sleep drains from his face. Did he hear Tony correctly? Why would he want to talk to Bucky? “He’s asleep,” he snaps, probably a little too harsh. “It’s late, Tony—can’t this wai—”

“My son is missing.”

Steve reels, sitting up. “Your _what_?” Against his leg, Bucky stirs. 

“I don’t have time to—” He lets out a strained breath. “I need to talk to Bucky.”

“It’s the middle of the night—he’s been through a lot, I don’t understand how Bucky—how he could—” Bucky’s awake now, blinking sleepily at him. Wonderfully, beautifully, he looks up at Steve; although the underlying pain is there, he seems okay. Steve wonders, briefly, what he dreamed about while he was asleep to make him feel that way. “Tony, what’s going on?”

A sniff on the other end. Some movement. “Just put it on speaker. Now, Steve. Please.”

The desperation in his voice startles Steve. He’s not usually like this. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever heard him like this, except when the Rumlow suits how went down. “Bucky?” he says, finally, tapping him gently. “Is it okay if I put Tony on speaker? He said he wants to—to talk.”

There’s a couple scars on Bucky’s face, paled by time. There’s one that blurs left across his cheek like someone struck him repeatedly with something and another that slashes down his chin, more purposeful. They don’t move like the rest of his face, stiffened by healing. “Okay,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. 

Tony’s voice rings out, loud and clear. “Bucky?”

“Yeah.”

“I need your help.”

As Tony explains, slowly and carefully, who his son is and what happened to him, Steve watches as Bucky draws further and further into himself. “Do you know,” continues Tony, “anywhere he could be? The police are looking, but it’s like he dropped off the fucking map and I don’t—I don’t know what to do.”

Beside Steve, Bucky moves, shifting on the floor so that he’s sitting cross-legged and facing Steve. “I know a few places,” says Bucky, not taking his eyes off of Steve. He looks sad, not painfully devastated like he often is, but like muted sadness, pain dulled over time.

“Oh—thank you, Bucky. I know this is—this is a bad time, but I need your help. I’m sorry to call like this, I just—I’m so scared for him.”

“I know,” Bucky echoes hopelessly. “I’ll go—I’ll find him.”

As Tony thanks him again and hangs up, Bucky stands up, breaking eye contact with Steve. He ducks his head, shame coming over his face, and moves to the floor mat by the door. 

He pulls on one shoe.

“Bucky,” Steve starts.

He doesn’t look up.

“Buck, hold on.”

He pulls the laces tight and yanks on his other shoe.

“Where are you going? It’s two in the morning—”

“Yeah, and Pietro is missing,” Bucky says coldly, throwing his jacket on. “I have to go find him.”

“I don’t even know who—Bucky, stop, please. It’s late—”

Bucky unlocks the door and pulls it open.

“The police are looking, right? I’m sure they’ll find him, he couldn’t have gone far—”

Bucky pauses in the doorway. He’s breathing heavily now; Steve can’t read his mind, but he knows it’s a whirlwind of dark fragments. “There was no one to look for me when I was like him,” he says, quiet. “I have to do this.”

Steve knows a little about what he’s talking about. _Like him._ When Bucky would disappear for hours or days at a time against his will. When men would drive him back to their place, so far that Bucky had no way of returning to Wanda and Scott. When they would force him to stay longer. “Bucky…”

“I have to.”

Steve gnaws on his lip and, in a moment of impulsivity, grabs his jacket off of the couch. “Then I’m coming with you.”

Bucky’s back is still to him. His shoulders drop further, his hair hanging past his face. It takes him a long time to respond, and his hand squeezes the doorknob. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

“I wasn’t…” His body seems to tense. “...good, back then. I didn’t… I don’t want you to see...what I was. What I...” He trails off.

The _what I am_ that he’d been about to say lingers in the air between them. “You’re always good, Bucky, that’s what I see.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You don’t… You didn’t know me...then.” His head dips even lower, and the door shudders as his hand shakes. “It was bad, Steve. Really bad.”

“I know,” Steve answers, gentle as possible. He moves forward and offers his hand to Bucky. “I don’t care. I love you no matter what your past looks like.”

Bucky takes it and squeezes his hand tightly. Steve’s hand is shaking. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Steve swears. “I just want to keep you safe. If this is what you want to do, I’ll help you do it.”

Hesitant, Bucky nods, and he lets go of Steve’s hand. “Let’s go,” he says finally. “We don’t have much time.”

* * *

Pietro’s more familiar than most with running away.

He ran from Johann a total of seven times; each time, he failed. The first time, he barely got out of the apartment. The last time, he lasted two nights in the city before one of Johann’s guys found him sleeping behind a dumpster and dragged him back. He’s learned many lessons: don’t go in a straight line, don’t run, blend in, don’t carry technology, don’t be suspicious… Now, he has nothing but the clothes on his back to protect him. Back home—at _Tony’s_ , he corrects himself—he had a secret stash hidden deep in his closet, just in case anything ever happened. Some food, a knife, some leftover money Tony left around the house. It would’ve done him good now, but his mind was so fucked that he completely forgot.

He doesn’t run. That’s always been rule number one: don’t run. He’s good at running, but when you’re trying not to be found, running is an excellent way for someone to recognize you. His black hoodie is pulled over his head, hiding his platinum blonde hair. He hopes Tony gives up the search soon. He pickpocketed some lady by the subway and swiped her MetroCard—it got him in the right direction, until he hopped out and walked the rest of the way.

He knows where he needs to go.

_You get to make choices for yourself now,_ Maria told him the other day. _To protect yourself, to make yourself happy, to live your best life…_

He’s trying to protect himself, trying his very best. He doesn’t want to live in a place where he has to worry about who’s going to climb into his bed or when he should climb in theirs. It’s not something… It’s never been something that he wanted. It takes so much of him to admit that to himself—being with Johann has been almost half of his life, and with manipulative words and lingering touches, he convinced Pietro that he wanted it, too.

But he never did.

Now, he gets to choose.

And Pietro wants to be _safe._

* * *

They walk.

It’s not too cold; God knows Bucky’s survived worse weather conditions outside, even slept in them, but the cold does bite. He wonders how much Pietro feels the cold right now. Did he have time to grab a jacket before he left the place? Memories flood him; he hopes Pietro’s pants have pockets. Maybe someone kind will give him some money, some food, a drink of water. Bucky used to live off of that sort of kindness. Steve’s sort of kindness. He hopes someone like Steve finds Pietro before Johann does.

“You knew him?” Steve asks.

“Who?”

“Tony’s, um, son. Did you know him?”

Bucky wishes they were holding hands, but instead his hands are shoved into his pockets. “Yeah, um…” He grimaces. “Not everyone had it as bad as I did, you know? But the people who are fucked up look for people like me, with” —he raises his prosthetic— “stuff like this, people who are already so—so broken that they can’t say no. Those kinds of people… A lot of the time they wanted kids like Pietro, too.” He shrugs weakly. “The more fucked up the better, I guess.”

Steve stumbles a little. “Jesus, Buck…”

He’s looking at Bucky with those kind, sad eyes, and Bucky can hardly stand it. “So we had a lot of the same, um, clients. The bad ones. The first time I met him, it was at, um.” He blinks back tears. Phantom pain spirals down his back, like he’s back on Johann’s bed. 

_“I’ve heard all about you,” Johann says, caressing his amputated shoulder. “You really are something special, aren’t you?”_

_Bucky sinks deeper into his mind; his legs shake with dread. There is something wrong about this. Something deeply, horribly wrong. He sits up suddenly._

_Johann cocks his head. “No, no, back down,_ liebling _, you do as I say.” As Johann pushes him back down and pulls his pants down his legs, Bucky tries to say no but all that comes out is this small noise in the back of his throat. He sits up again; this time, Johann shoves him back down. “What did I say?” he growls, voice lower than before. “Down.”_

_Bucky lies back down._

“Just take your time,” Steve says, and Bucky realizes they’re stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He forces his legs to keep going. “It’s okay.” 

Somehow, that’s just what he needs to hear. So he works up the courage to build up the words in his mouth, and he explains.

_A couple hours later, Bucky’s sobbing into a pillow as Johann rebuckles his belt. “Out,” he says, dropping some bills on the bed and shooing Bucky away with his hands. “I’m done with you.”_

_Bucky snatches up the money and scrambles away, grabbing his clothes on the way out. God, he’s sore. There’s gonna be bruises later. Johann wasn’t as bad as some of the others, just… The shame of it taints him like wet paint. His body stings, pain radiating from small spots on his body. He pulls his pants on, quickly, and heads down the hallway. He doesn’t remember how to get out of here._

_He feels disgusting._

_He’s yanking his shirt back on when he hears it—a small whimpering sound, like from a kicked puppy. Johann’s still in the bedroom, he knows, and he still doesn’t know where he’s going, so he follows the sound down the hallway until he stumbles upon a closet, where he can hear the sound clearer than ever._

_It’s locked. From the outside._

_Bucky’s legs are still shaking, but he can’t ignore this. What if there’s someone in there? He wouldn’t put it past Johann to do something like that. The whimpering is still going, so in a moment of complete stupidity, Bucky slides open the deadbolt on the outside of the closet and pulls open the door._

_There’s a kid inside. He’s small, maybe eleven or twelve, curled up in half-naked ball in the corner of the closet, hugging his knees close to his chest. His eyes are squeezed shut as his face shines with tears, and he trembles more as Bucky opens the door. He whimpers unintelligibly, and Bucky’s heart clenches. “Hey, hey,” he says, kneeling beside him. He’s not the picture of comfort, not with half his face swelling like a balloon and welts littering his exposed skin, but he does his best. “You okay?”_

_The kid starts to shiver. He doesn’t look hurt, just scared, but the fact that he’s only dressed in his underwear shakes Bucky to his core. He won’t look at Bucky. He only trembles harder. This kid is anything but okay._

_“Did he hurt you?”_

_He whimpers a little._

_“I’m not gonna hurt you. He—he hurt me, too, see?”_

_Finally, the boy looks up, eyes falling on the welts Bucky has. The hickeys. The disheveled clothing. His eyes go wide. “Y-you—”_

_Bucky nods. His whole body aches, yet still he extends his hand out to the kid. He sees pain reflected in those troubled eyes, pain not so far from his own. He knows what happened here, and he knows what he has to do. “Come on. You don’t have to stay here.”_

_The kid shook his head. “I c-can’t,” he stammers miserably._

_“You can, it’s okay…” Bucky can’t do a lot for him, but he’s a kid. If Bucky points him toward a police_ _station, maybe they’ll take care of him. Give him a good home. “You can do it.”_

_“I’m” —the boy trembles even more, his voice dropping to a whisper— “scared.”_

_As Bucky starts to respond, the boy’s eyes go horrifically wide, and he curls up tighter than ever._

_A warm hand grabs him by the neck and squeezes; fear shoots through him. Bucky yelps, clawing at his neck in surprise—a voice snaps in vicious German, and blinding pain ripples over Bucky’s side._

_He hears the boy scream._

“I got away,” Bucky hears himself say, as Steve looks at him in a mixture of shock and empathy, “but he beat me pretty bad for that. He’s pretty, um…” He swallows. “...protective of his favorites.”

“And the kid—he was Pietro?”

Bucky shakes his head, and all of a sudden his throat clenches up. He’s never told anyone about this. The guilt he feels about that little boy he kept entirely to himself. It wasn’t trauma, so he never felt the need to tell Jennifer. It was just something he had to deal with on his own.

Steve’s hand lingers by his, and Bucky takes it. He needs Steve’s courage, his steadfast strength. “He—he was the one before Pietro. He, um—“ Steve squeezes his hand in reassurance, and Bucky’s lungs fill up again. “A couple days after I met him, I saw on the news that a kid—that kid—jumped off the—the roof of that—Johann’s building, and he—he—”

Steve looks solemn. “He didn’t make it?”

Bucky shook his head, guilt radiating through him. “About a month after that, I met Pietro at a club—some underground place—and saw him with Johann. I knew… I knew he was Johann’s new...kid. I tried to get him to leave with me, but he wouldn’t. Too scared.”

Steve runs his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles. “You did the right thing, Bucky. I’m proud of you.”

They’re stopped again, standing in the middle of the sidewalk on a darkened street. “I wish I could’ve saved him—the other one. I should’ve…”

Steve’s facing him now, watching him intently. “You did everything you could, Buck. More than anyone else could’ve done.” He smiles; Bucky melts. “You’re so brave, Bucky. So, so brave.”

Then, Steve brushes Bucky’s hair back, tucking it back behind his ear. It’s something Steve did so much when they were younger. He did it before their first kiss. Steve did it all the time, and it’s such a sign of wonderful affection and love and _Steve_ that Bucky’s knees start to wobble. “I wish I could take away all of your pain,” Steve says softly, now with one hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You didn’t deserve any of it, Buck.”

Bucky thought that therapy would be this thing that would tear him apart: the last straw or the straw that broke the camel’s back or whatever it is. He thought Jennifer would see him the way _he_ saw himself. He didn’t realize Jennifer would tell him what Steve’s saying to him right now, his voice muted in the night air. _I believe you, you know, when you said you didn’t want it. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t deserve any of it._ There’s so many conflicting thoughts but the one that resounds right now is _love_ , love that overwhelms his senses. and right now, more than anything, he wants to take another step. 

His mind is a jumble of thoughts, but one thing is crystal clear: he loves Steve Rogers more than anything else in the world. And Steve loves him, too. In that moment, Bucky wants to kiss him, and the feeling is like a shock to the heart. 

Does he deserve that kind of love, after all that he’s done? 

He puts his hand at the nape of Steve’s neck and pulls him in. “I love you,” Bucky says, his mouth inches from Steve’s. He knows it’s poor timing and they’re in the middle of a grimy street and they have yet to find this poor boy, but the world slows in Steve’s eyes and he can’t seem to stop staring. 

“I love you, too. Always.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, as Steve’s hands brush down his face, tracing him with such love that he wants to drown in it.

In Steve’s eyes, he finds forgiveness. “Don’t be.”

Then Bucky kisses him. It’s soft and slow and fills him everywhere that Rumlow cracked him open. It feels like family, like home, like Steve. Steve kisses him back, and Bucky feels...whole.

Steve pulls away first. “You’re crying,” he says. “You okay?”

He is? Bucky touches his face absently, feeling the wetness on his face. “I—” And he smiles through it. These tears—they aren’t scared or sad or exhausted tears. They’re _happy._ He cries a little more and pulls Steve in close, hugs him tightly. “I’m okay,” he sobs into his neck. A laugh builds in his throat. Steve kisses his forehead, and Bucky pulls back, tilting his head against Steve’s shoulder, one arm around his waist. He feels _safe._ He feels _strong._ With Steve by his side… “I’m okay.”

  
  


* * *

Pietro can’t get caught.

Johann’s punishments weren’t particularly violent—he was the favorite, after all, and Johann couldn’t ruin his favorite for the other customers. 

But when he ran… Johann’s dark side truly came to light. He’d call the customers who were the most cruel to Pietro, offer him up for a lower price, and stand in the corner, watching, arms folded, as Pietro screamed and cried. He’d lock him in the closet for days at a time, nothing to keep him company but a bottle of water. _Say it again,_ he said, the last time Pietro ran away.

There was still blood running down Pietro’s thighs and bells ringing in his head and warmth swelling up his lip but still he managed to kneel on his bruised knees and repeat what he’d said. _I’m sorry. I never should have run._

Tears spilled down Pietro’s face, unwilling, and Johann grabbed his face, fingers stabbing into both cheeks. _Stop crying._ Pietro stopped, digging his nails into his palms to keep his emotions at bay. _And?_

_You’re the best thing that ever happened to me._ A sob crept up his throat. _I belong to you and only you._

Johann gripped his face harder. Pietro resisted the urge to jerk away. _And?_

_And this is what I deserve,_ he choked out.

Johann smiled. _Good boy._

Pietro stumbles a little bit, almost bumping into a passing woman. Why is it that everything feels worse now? He thinks about Tony, and his heart clenches in his chest. He hasn’t _felt_ like this since… since… since he was back home, in Sokovia. With Johann, he tried not to show much emotion—he hated that. Pietro was his _favorite_ , so he wasn’t allowed to. _Your feelings belong to me,_ Johann told him once, _and only me._

But right now, his feelings are going through the roof. He’s _terrified._ Every time he turns a corner, he expects to see Tony or Johann there waiting for him. He takes the subway, hopping on and off at various stops and ducking into alleys until finally he gets far enough that his racing heart calms a little. 

He finally collapses in a cafe, huddled in the corner with his hood up, shivering. He didn’t realize until now just how cold it is: maybe fifty degrees. It wouldn’t be bad usually, but he’s only wearing pajama pants and a hoodie—nothing over, nothing under. He didn’t pack much; he didn’t have _time._ Running away was such a split-second decision that he can’t really remember climbing down the fire escape, only landing at the bottom. 

He’s been stashing food under his bed for weeks. Johann liked to punish him by locking all the cabinets so he’d starve unless he did exactly as he was told. But Pietro didn’t grab any of his stash before he left. He didn’t think about it. He didn’t really think anything except run, _run, RUN!_

“...okay?” 

Pietro blinks. 

The barista is standing in front of him, head cocked. “You got someone coming for you?”

He ducks her gaze, nodding. Johann always knew when he was lying just by looking at him. The barista is a small woman, and she can’t tell if he’s lying or not, but she knows something’s wrong. She nods and walks off.

What is he supposed to do? He has nowhere to go. He can’t go back home now that he ran away. Tony’s _furious_ with him. He can’t face him now—it would hurt too much. _Home._ Is that what it is? That wide apartment filled with laughter and home-cooked meals and love? It’s a place where the cabinets and closets have no locks, where he never feels hungry and never has to clean, where the man of the house rejects his advances and his wife shows him, he thinks, affection like his mother gave him once. He remembers his mother—she’s one of the clearest memories he has, of someone warm and soft holding him close without sneaking a hand to touch him elsewhere.

The barista’s back. Instinctively, Pietro inches towards the door in his seat, uncomfortable. But she doesn’t touch him. Without one hand, she sticks out a handful of napkins. “For your nose,” she says, and he takes them.

He notices now that there are spots of blood on the table, and a distinctive trail on his chest and hoodie, too. He touches his nose. Come to think of it, his nose does feel strange, swollen and prickling with pain. He partially remembers the flash of pain he experienced in Tony’s bedroom, but it's all so blurry. He can't remember what happened. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

She smiles. With her other hand, she hands him a cup of water. “Anything else you need?” 

He shakes his head. 

“Well, bathroom’s over there to the left, if you need...to clean up.”

Pietro looks down at himself. Even though he’s holding a wad of napkins to his face, his front is still covered in a substantial amount of blood, and he’s visibly shivering—he tries to stop it. _Stay still,_ Johann would say, gripping both of his wrists. _Still!_ Pepper got him this hoodie, he realizes; will she be angry that he ruined it?

He escapes to the restroom when the barista isn’t looking; it’s a one-room bathroom, stained and mucky, but at least he knows he’s alone. He deadbolts the door, testing the handle again to make sure it’s actually locked, and then removes his hoodie. Glancing in the mirror, he realizes why the barista looked so worried—he’s pale and exhausted and his nose is swelling up like a balloon, blood still spilling from it. How long has it been since he left Tony’s place? He cleans as much of the blood as he can, running cold water over the hoodie and scrubbing it away. He sticks the now soaking hoodie under the dryer and waits, but can only get it partially dry—it still clings wetly to his skin when he puts it back on.

Once he returns to his seat in the corner of the cafe, the barista is back. “Honey…” she says softly, seeing the wet hoodie and the remnants of blood. “How old are you?”

His hands curl into fists. “Eighteen.”

She shakes her head. “Try again.”

His heart sinks. How do they always know? His vision goes blurry with tears, and he ducks his head again. Maybe she won’t notice. She’s asking questions now, shit like _can you call someone_ and _who did this to you_ but he’s gone already. He has to go. He has to—He has to run. He can’t—can’t stay—she knows—she _knows—_

He’s on his feet now, somehow already at the door of the cafe, and the barista yells, “Wait!”

His legs stop. He can’t _not_ obey; it’s what he’s supposed to do.

But the barista doesn’t force him to stay. Instead, she hands him something: a small black umbrella. “It’s pouring outside—please be safe.”

He glances outside—it’s raining, just as she said, and he’s already shivering in his wet hoodie. He takes the umbrella and bolts.

* * *

It’s fucking cold outside.

Pietro shivers in his wet hoodie and shuffles down the sidewalks with the umbrella shielding his head. Rain seeps into his sneakers—new blue ones that Pepper bought him. He’s not thinking straight, not quite, the fog of _run, run, run_ pounding through his brain. Where can he go?

_“Pietro?”_

_He stared at his hands._

_“Did you hear what I said?” Maria asks._

_He nods._

_“What do you think?”_

_Pietro looks at the door, picking at his cuticles. “I…” He fixates on the doorknob. Is it locked? Is Tony outside? Is he listening?_

_Maria leans forward, watching him. “Pietro, there’s no one here but you and me.”_

_How can he believe her?_

_“Let me say it again.” He looks down. “Tony doesn’t think of you that way.”_

_She never talks about his past in specifics because it bothers him._ That way. _He digs his nails into his_ _wrist. “Everyone thinks of me that way.”_

_Maria points at his wrist, and he lets go, clenching his hand into a fist instead. “I don’t think that’s true, Pietro. Can you think of someone who never thought of you that way?”_

_Can he? His mind drifts. His parents, he guesses. Pepper, maybe? He can never be sure. There are Johann’s other boys, sure, but sometimes he would make them… make them… His breath stops in his chest._

_“Pietro? Just breathe for me, okay? We’re gonna take some deep breaths. In for five, one, two…”_

_He listens to her—the breathing exercises help, usually, and somehow she keeps him from going completely inside of his head, but this time the oily shame bubbles inside of his lungs. “Gamora,” he says suddenly, and the wrinkles in his forehead smooth over._

_Maria tilts her head. “Who’s that?”_

_He doesn’t want to explain how he knows her, so he just falls silent. Gamora, when he was with Johann, was his everything._

He finds himself at a door, and sweet relief ripples over him. He knows this door. His knuckles hurt; how hard did he knock? A woman opens the door. _Gamora._ “Pietro,” she gasps, and her eyes immediately scan the hallway behind him. “How the hell—get in here, quick.”

He blinks.

Gamora yanks him inside and locks the door.

* * *

In her line of work, Gamora doesn’t make many friends. She started out as one of Schmidt’s kids, but she was old enough and wild enough when she started that she broke out before it could get too bad. When she became an adult, she went back into his system, this time helped by a young veteran named Peter Quill. _I don’t understand why you’d want to go back there_ , he told her. _He’s a goddamn psychopath._

She glared at him. _There are people,_ kids _, still in there, Quill. You really gonna sit around and let them suffer?_

_Let the police do it—_

_The police,_ she interrupted, _can’t get on the inside. But I can. It’s the only way to make a difference._

Quill actually looked concerned, his face wrinkled into a frown. _But you could get hurt—you_ will _—_

She lifted her chin. _If I can get more kids out of situations like that, that’s all that I care about._ He agreed to help her as much as he could. They worked to help children escape human trafficking situations, as Peter ran a homeless shelter and had the ability to hide them once Gamora got them out and then took them to the police. What they did wasn’t exactly...legal. They maimed and murdered and stole, but what they did was _good_. They rescued kids from horrific lives like the one Gamora lived through.

Pietro was the one child she could never save. He was Johann’s, kept under such close supervision that even she and Peter couldn’t set him free. She’d tried, once. _I’m here to help you_ , she said, as Johann slunk off to visit another client.

Pietro sat at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of Cheerios as she snuck in. He seemed startled by her entrance, but he didn’t move from his spot. He was nine then, just a boy, yet already Schmidt had wiped him clean of most emotion. _You should go,_ he said softly.

She circled the table and grabbed his hand. _Come on. I can get you out of here._

Pietro didn’t move. _He knows you’re here._ He ate another spoonful. _He puts cameras...everywhere._

_I took out the cameras,_ she told him, tugging at his hand. _We don’t have much time._

_You don’t have much time_ , he echoed, and he lifted his spoon to point at the wall, where a small black camera hides in the shadows of a dark shelf. _You should go._

Her stomach sank. If Schmidt saw her in that camera, then she was already in danger. 

She left that time with a promise to return. She disguised herself as a housekeeper and would check up on him when she could, reminding him that if there was ever a chance she’d free him. 

Now, as she hugs Pietro tightly, she says, “Pietro—Schmidt told everyone he’d _killed_ you.”

He shakes his head, burying his face in her shoulder. 

“What happened to you? You’re _bleeding._ Did he do this?”

Again, he shakes his head. “I didn’t… He—it was all so fast, I…”

“Who hurt you?”

He hugs her tighter, but he doesn’t answer her question. She sits him down at her table with a glass of water and a blanket. He’s shivering, but she doesn’t know if it’s because of the weather or his mental state. They sit for a while in silence, but Gamora can feel the time weighing on her like an anchor. Schmidt’s people live around here—she lives near some of them so she can easily get close to the kids who are trafficked, but now it feels like a major mistake. Pietro’s in danger.

“Can I… Can I stay with you?” he asks softly, his eyes on the now-empty glass of water. 

Gamora glances at the door; her face falls. “Kiddo…” She lets him go and holds him out at arms’ length. “You know you can’t—Schmidt’s people are everywhere. In this building, even. They’d _find_ you here. They’re probably…” She shakes her head. “It’s too dangerous—is there anywhere else you can go?” Pietro presses his hands into his eyes like he’s trying to erase everything he’s seen. She takes his silence as a _no_ and scoots her chair closer to him. “You look better… You’ve been eating.” It’s a half a question and half a statement, and Pietro nods in response. “Who were you with? A group home? Someone around here?”

“After…” He trails off. “I got a new family.” She winces; that fucker Johann should never be referred to as Pietro’s family. “A mom and a dad.”

“Can you call them? You can use my—” 

“No!” 

Gamora startles. Pietro’s never been loud, not since she’s known him, and this sudden outburst… She almost smiles. He’s _braver_ now. “Did they do this?”

He doesn’t answer. 

She sighs. “Pietro, you gotta talk to me. If they’re hurting you…” She’ll flay them alive.”

He shakes his head; all of a sudden, he looks close to tears. “They’re _nice._ ” He looks up at her. “Like you.”

Her heart pulses. “That’s good—that, that’s really good, hon. They don’t—most people aren’t like Johann, you know. I’m glad you—you have someone, but why are you here?”

He picks at his fingernails. “I fucked up, Gamora. Bad. I thought… I don’t know. I just got so—so bad, and I… I needed somewhere safe.”

“You ran?” she prompts.

He nods miserably.

He’s so much better now, she knows. He’s got _emotion_ in his face, true emotion, the kind that shines in his eyes and lingers on his skin. “That’s okay,” she tells him. “I’m glad you came to me, but you’re not _safe_ here. Schmidt’s people…”

He pales.“Gamora, please… I have nowhere else—p-please—”

“Pietro.” She extends her hand to him, and he touches her knuckles before grasping her hand tightly. “We’ll find you somewhere safe, I promise.”

He won’t meet her eyes.

“Just not here, okay? You’re not safe here.”

A small shake of his head. “I’m only safe here,” he says quietly. 

Gamora doesn’t know how to respond, but his stomach growls, relieving her of having to think of something. “You hungry, kiddo?” Pietro doesn’t have time to answer before she takes out the peanut butter and swipes the bread from the table. She makes him a quick sandwich, which he turns around and devours, wiping his sleeve across his mouth after. 

She knows what Johann did to him. Over the years, she watched as he grew more and more withdrawn, unable to eat in front of others, unable to see other people as anything other than a potential abuser. He even feared talking to the other boys his age. 

And now he’s eating, right in front of her, and he thanks her, asking quietly for another. 

She smiles and makes him another sandwich. 

* * *

They buy umbrellas at a convenience store as soon as it starts to rain. There’s a heaviness in the air, so thick that Steve can almost taste it, but they don’t give up hope. So far, they’ve only ducked into alleys and glanced through windows, but now they’re standing in front of a building, It’s a shelter, Steve thinks, because the shades are drawn and the lights are on and there’s posters of happy people with trays of food, and Bucky’s looking at it with a strange mixture of revulsion and warmth. 

He hasn’t moved in at least thirty seconds, so Steve nudges Bucky’s foot with his own. “You okay?”

He blinks, coming back to himself. “I, uh…” He blinks a few more times. “Yeah, fine.” He lifts his land like he’s about to turn the door handle, but it falters again. His head jerks, just the slightest bit, so he can see Steve in the corner of his eye. Steve’s known Bucky for as long as he can remember, and it hits him, what Bucky is doing. He doesn’t want Steve to go in with him. When he says that out loud, quiet and careful, Bucky visibly tenses. “No, it’s—it’s okay. I…” His shoulders droop. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go.” He yanks the handle and walks in so quickly that Steve has to hurry to catch up with him.

Inside, there’s a woman sitting at the front desk, and she stands when Bucky walks in. “James?” she says, and her voice is neither kind nor sympathetic, just startled. “I told you not to come back here—” Her eyes jump to Steve. “And with a client, too?” Steve wants to hit her; his hand twitches and clenches into a partial fist, but then Bucky takes a step back, one hand grazing against Steve’s arm. _Stop,_ he means. _Don’t do anything. “_ Get your ass out of my shelter.”

Bucky ducks his head, hair falling to hide part of his face. “I don’t—do that, not anymore.” He shrugs, the movement almost imperceptible. “This is Steve. And I go by...Bucky, now.”

“I don’t care what you call yourself,” she snaps. Frustration explodes in Steve’s mind, but he doesn’t move. Bucky doesn’t want him to, and they have to find Pietro. “You’re not welcome here.”

“I don’t want to stay,” mumbles Bucky. “I’m looking for someone. A kid.”

The woman sets down her clipboard. “You lying to me, James?”

Bucky flinches. “No, ma’am. He… He‘s in trouble.”

The woman’s eyes drift to Steve, and it seems like she’s finally taking in the scene for the first time. 

Steve takes Bucky’s hand as he continues to speak. “His name is Pietro. Sokovian-looking kid. Real blonde. Quiet.”

“Friend of yours?” 

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah.”

“I’ll ask around.” She glares at him. “Leave your number. If I find him, I’ll let you know.”

* * *

When they leave that shelter, Bucky’s much quieter than before. “She shouldn’t have treated you like that,” Steve tells him, rubbing his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky blinks, and his eyes shine. “It’s okay. She...knew me. When I was…”

“It doesn’t matter what you did,” Steve says. “You don’t deserve that.”

Bucky makes a small, pained sound. “But you don’t know what I… what I…”

“You deserve the whole universe, Buck. anybody gets to treat you like that. No one.”

Bucky drops his head onto Steve’s shoulder, and they keep walking. He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. His silence says it all.

  
  


* * *

Bucky’s getting agitated; it’s more than obvious in the way he walks, the way he squeezes Steve’s hand at anything that startles him, the way his gaze scatters over the street like he’s waiting for someone to lurch out of the shadows. They’ve been in and out of cabs, and now they’re on the street again, walking to an apartment where Bucky says someone could help him. 

“I think we should stop,” says Steve, as Bucky braces his prosthetic against the nearest wall, wincing. “It’s… It’s past three, Bucky. I think we should go home.”

“No,” Bucky says. “We’re gonna find him. We—we have to.”

“You’re exhausted,” Steve protests, and it’s true. Bucky’s clearly tired. He’s tired all the time these days, but it’s worse right now, laced with discomfort and memory and shame. “Let’s go back, get some sleep—”

Bucky won’t look at him. “I want to keep going. We can’t give up now. Please...” 

“I’m sure they’ll find him, Buck. He’s a kid, they’ve got everyone looking for him, he’ll be—”

“I said _no!_ ”

Steve startles, and Bucky flinches, but the agitation still burns within him. “Buck—”

“I won’t just let this fucking _happen_ , Steve! He… He needs me! Someone to look for him, someone to make sure he—he—he doesn’t end up like me! Nobody fucking looked for me” —Steve rears back, hurt— “and I ended up so fucked up, and he’s just a _kid!_ He’s like _me,_ Steve, he’s me, he’s—” Bucky’s falling weakly against the wall, and Steve catches him. Instead of flinching, he holds fast. “I can’t—I can’t let him—let this happen—nobody looked—they didn’t—they d-didn’t—”

“I looked,” Steve whispers, as Bucky buries his face into his neck, taking deep, rattling breaths. “I never stopped looking, Buck.” Bucky won’t stop shaking, but Steve just holds him, wrapping his arms around him until the trembling starts to die down. 

“I know,” says Bucky, after a while. His voice is so quiet that Steve can barely hear it. “But it didn’t feel like that, sometimes. I thought…” His head tilts on Steve’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”

“I will always,” says Steve, firmly, “look for you.”

Bucky nods into his neck, and Steve can feel his eyes close, lashes brushing lightly against his skin.

“The police are everywhere,” Steve reminds him. “Tony is looking… He’s got people on his side, Buck. They’re gonna find him. Remember, we found you? After…”

Neither of them move to finish the sentence, but Bucky tightens his grip on Steve. “Tony used the face stuff, then… Pietro doesn’t… He was fucking trafficked, his face isn’t in any kind of system, they can’t find him that way. Please, Steve. I can’t just leave him. I have to keep looking.”

Steve nods, and he runs his hand up and down Bucky’s arm. “I know, I know. I just want you to be safe, that’s all.”

Bucky kisses Steve’s shoulder, tired. “I’m always safe with you.”

* * *

There’s something poking at his hand, but Pietro can barely feel it. He keeps thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking until his brain burns like he’s downed one too many shots. He can’t. He can’t. It’s a tsunami of horror and sickening confusion, and it builds and builds and builds until it comes crashing down and he can’t breathe—

_He’s telling her about Pepper and Tony when there’s a knock on the door. Two sharp bangs and Pietro’s already on his feet, backing into the counter. He’s crawling back into his head, face slack. “Who is it?” she calls out, putting on her I-mean-business voice._

_“It’s Ronan!” snaps the other voice. “Open up!”_

_Ronan wasn’t one of Johann’s clients, but he was one of his close friends, one who was more than_ _familiar with Pietro and would grab him as soon as he got a glimpse of that ice-white hair. “I’m getting dressed!” she shouts back. “Come back later!”_

_“You think I give a fuck? Open the door!”_

_Pietro doesn’t want to. He can’t go back, he can’t. Johann will be so, so angry… Gamora waves her hands at him, and her message is clear:_ hide _. He does as she says and bolts into the next room. ducking behind the door. She clears the counter, shoving the dishes into the sink._

_“Open this door, Gamora! Now!”_

_He hears it—footsteps, the deadbolt, another set of footsteps—and everything inside him goes cold._

There’s something wet swiping at his hand, and Pietro blinks. It takes him a few seconds, but he finally forces himself to look down as a soft muzzle noses into his palm, licking. He’s still holding part of that peanut butter sandwich Gamora made him, and the small dog next to him is slurping at his palm to gulp down what remained of it. Somehow, the rhythmic movement of the dog’s tongue brought him to life again, and he slumped back against the wall, buzzing with anticipation. Is that man going to come after him? What happened to Gamora? Oh, fuck, now he _really_ has nowhere to go—

The dog makes a small, whiny noise, and Pietro finally looks down at it as it finishes licking at his hand and stares up at him, head cocked. Pietro doesn’t know a lot about dogs, but he can see that it’s young, not a baby, but half the size it should be. It’s a skinny thing, its mottled fur damp with rain and clinging to its thin body, and it licks its teeth as though trying to wring more taste out of the peanut butter. It’s a boy, and it’s not bleeding but it’s been hurt; the left side of its face is mauled, claw marks everywhere. He’s a dog’s victim, or maybe a cat. Most of his left ear is gone, gray fluff grown over where the rest of it should be.

Pietro clicks his tongue. “Hey.” His voice feels too loud, but the puppy flips its head the other way and backs up a step, tail limp now.

Not even a dog wants to be around him. Figures.

He buries his head into his hands and tries to take a breath, but he can’t stop thinking it. He left the only person in the world who he could trust, and now he has no one. They’re going to find him, he knows, whether it’s Johann or the police or Tony or Pepper. And when they do, he’s gonna be in for it. Last time he ran… He chokes back a sob and tries to calm down. _You get to choose,_ Maria said, and the thought of choosing makes the gaping hole in his chest fill up a little more. He wishes Maria were here now to tell him what to do. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, and all he wants to do is curl up on the opposite side of the couch from Pepper and play Charades until the windows were dark. He wanted to eat hash browns until his stomach hurt. He wanted to—

Another whimper, and then a wet nose nudges at his face, licking insistently. Pietro blinks, coming back to himself, and the licking gets faster. It tickles. It’s rough and smells like peanut butter and nothing at all like Johann Schmidt and when he looks at this litte gray-and-white-and-brown dog, Pietro can’t help but touch the furry head.

The dog jumps back before Pietro can reach him, startled, and its tail stops wagging. It moves its head, tilting awkwardly as though to shield the scarred side of its face. Whining erupts from the back of his throat, scratchy and shaky. Its paws are too big for its small legs, and they tremble. It’s afraid, Pietro realizes, just like him. “Good boy,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like Johann’s voice in his mouth. “It’s okay, it’s okay. C’mere, you’re okay.” He sounds kind of like Pepper, he thinks, and the dog seems to think so, too, because it inches a little closer. “That’s it, hey, I’m okay, I won’t hurt you..” Pietro extends his hand to the good side of the dog’s head, and it slowly, tentatively, nudges his hand. He pets it softly, like he would a teddy bear, except this teddy bear makes this tiny happy noise and leans in for another touch. “Good boy, good boy…”

It doesn’t move any closer than that, but that’s okay. He’s good like this, petting its soft head and whispering to it until he’s finally calm again. By that time, he knows where he needs to go. 

* * *

They’re too fucking late. When they finally arrive at Gamora’s (“She helped a lot of people,” Bucky told him. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew him.”), she’s nursing a black eye and Pietro, Gamora tells them, is long gone. 

“God _damn_ it,” says Bucky wearily, and Steve dusts a hand over his elbow in an attempt to soothe him.

“Did he...?” starts Steve.

She adjusts the ice pack over her eye. “Don’t be a moron, Steve Rogers. Pietro would never hurt me. It was one of Schmidt’s guys—found out he was here. That’s why he ran again.”

“Which one?” asks Bucky. His voice is quieter now, but just as wounded.

“No one you’d know, kid. Got into Schmidt’s shit about a year ago. Ronan. Thinks I’m a fucking spy.” She lets out a dry laugh. “Good thing Schmidt’s on my side.”

Bucky grimaces.

Steve glances between the two of them; something flares to life within him. He’s trying to understand what’s going on and why the hell she’s mentioning _him_ in Bucky’s presence. “Sorry—what exactly do you do?”

Bucky’s watching Gamora with this kind of admiration he’s only seen him give Wanda or Scott. “She breaks out kids—kids like Pietro, like the...yeah.”

Steve stares at her; she glowers back. 

“She’s okay, Steve,” Bucky says. “She stayed at Wanda’s for a while. She’s one of the good ones.”

Steve swallows his suspicion and sticks his hands in his pockets; one hand misses and takes a second attempt. “You know where he went?”

“Well, I didn’t have a whole lot of time to ask him,” she snaps, “while keeping Ronan distracted, did I?”

Steve’s about to respond when Bucky says, “Thanks, Gamora. For doing that.”

Gamora’s expression eases. “Of course. I’m glad he got out before Ronan could get him.” She turns over the ice pack and touches it to her wrist, where her skin swells. “Sorry I can’t give you more than that, kid. I hope you find him—he looked pretty banged up when he was here.”

“Banged up?” echoes Bucky. His voice is a little strangled.

She shrugs her shoulders. “He wouldn’t say what happened, but I’m guessing it’s why he ran. Didn’t look too bad—a broken nose, that’s all.”

Bucky goes quiet. “We should go,” he says. 

Gamora half-smiles at him. “Well, I hope you find him,” she says. “That kid needs a fucking miracle.”

* * *

Steve watches Bucky from a few feet away. He wants to call a cab, but he won’t look back down at his phone, not while Bucky is like this. He’s distressed, hands clenched into shaking fists. “If we find him,” Bucky says, and his voice is so dangerously still that Steve stops everything he’s doing to look at him, “we’re not taking him back to Tony.”

Steve tucks his phone in his pocket. “He’s his legal guardian,” Steve says gently. “And you know Tony would never do anything to hurt—”

“Steve, you don’t fucking know them like I do,” Bucky snaps. “Gamora said he had a _broken nose_.”

“Ba—” Steve swallows the word _baby_ and continues. “Bucky, that could’ve been anything. Could’ve been one of Schmidt’s people. We don’t _know._ Besides, Tony’s a good guy. He just wants to help—”

Everything’s getting darker, and the air thickens with tension, wobbling with uncertainty like two broken legs. “Steve—“ Bucky shakes his head, pressing his hands against the sides of his head, and it’s all Steve can do not to touch him and tell him it’s okay. “He’s one of _them,_ they never want to help—all they wanna do is touch you and call you someone else’s name and fuck you even when you tell them to stop—they wanna hold you down and fuck you again and lock you inside their fucking room and fuck you until you can’t remember how you even got there, until your own body’s a fucking nightmare and you can’t remember what it’s like to be loved, because all they tell you is you’re meant for one fucking thing, and it’s to bleed and fuck and moan and cry and scream until they finish, and they’re the only ones there, so you fucking believe it! _He’s one of them!”_

Bucky’s panting so hard that he’s wheezing, hand clutching at his chest, but he’s doused with fury now, the kind of anger Steve hasn’t seen since they got him back. He won’t get mad for himself, Steve realizes, but he’ll get mad for Pietro. He believes that the kid deserves justice, but not him. “Buck…” he says. “I’m on your side, you know. Always.”

Some of the anger seems to fizzle out of him. “I—” He winches, like he’s trying not to remember something. “I...know.” He rubs sporadically at his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be—”

“—sorry for, I know,” Bucky finishes. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I know. Still.” Steve reaches his hand out, and Bucky shies away from it with a sharp intake of breath.

Steve’s hand falters.

“Let’s just find him, okay? I don’t...”  
“Bucky…”

“It’ll all be okay once we find him.”

* * *

It’s three thirty-one in the morning when the knocking starts. Carol’s always been a light sleeper, and she wakes up with a start. It comes again, three knocking sounds that she can only hear because she’s a cop.

Carol shakes Maria awake and then grabs her gun, the one kept in the lockbox in the closet. The first thing she thinks about is Johann Schmidt and the cold corpse of the attorney he killed _;_ _go get Monica_ , she mouths at her wife, and Maria nods. They’ve practiced this: if something happens, Maria will call the police and get out of the house with Monica. 

Carol goes downstairs slowly, making no noise. _Knock, knock._ She slips in to the front door and peers through the peephole.

She sits back on her heels. What the _hell_?

She flings open the door. “Pietro?” she says, dumbfounded.

He’s dripping wet, rain completely soaked through his clothes and white-blonde hair. Red trickles from his nose. “S-sorry, I tho-thought—” Pietro shivers violently, his hands buried in his pockets, and ducks his head. “M-must have th-the wrong, um—”

It takes Carol a moment to realize he doesn’t know who she is. Their conversation was barely a couple minutes long; he’s looking for her wife. When she asks him about Maria, he nods shakily, following the movement of Carol’s hands with his eyes.

Carol ignores the fact that it’s almost four in the morning and beckons him inside. “C’mon, kiddo, let’s get you out of the cold. I’ll go get Maria.” 

* * *

They sit him down at the kitchen table with a bowl of Lucky Charms and a blanket draped over his shoulders. As he eats, Carol follows Maria back into their room. She’s sifting through her closet, searching for something suitable for Pietro to wear. “We have to call Tony,” says Carol.

Maria shakes her head. “Not yet.”

“But he—“

“No.” Carol can hear it in her voice. It’s the way her own voice sounds when she’s got her badge clipped to her belt and a gun in her hand. Maria’s in psychiatrist mode now, so Carol goes quiet. “Not until we have a better idea of what happened to him.”

“It’s _Tony_ ,” she emphasizes. “He’d never do anything to hurt him.”

“We don’t know that,” Maria responds, scooping up a T-shirt and a smallish pair of sweatpants. “You don’t know who’s a criminal just by looking at them, do you?”

Carol grimaces. “That’s not the same— I _know_ Tony, I found him as a possible parent—”

“As a last resort,” her wife corrects.“I don’t know him, Carol, but I do know my patient, and I’m not about to put him in danger just because you said so.” She frowns a little. “I believe that Tony’s trying to be a good parent, but that doesn’t mean he‘s innocent.” Maria folds up the pile of clothing in her arms. “He’s my responsibility, and it’s my job to treat him—”

“—and it’s mine to make sure he’s safe—I have to call Tony, that’s the goddamn _law—_ ”

Maria’s head snaps up. “You and I both know,” she says, eyes hard, “that the law doesn’t always protect the people it should.”

Carol shuts up.

Maria snatches up some socks and a sweatshirt, but when she reaches to grab another towel, some of it falls. Without a word, Carol reaches down to pick it up. “Thanks,” Maria says, soft. “Look—just—just give me an hour with him, okay? I just want to make sure…”

“I know,” she says. “Go. I’ll check on Monica.”

* * *

He won’t talk. After he dresses in fresh clothes and sits back at the table with a mug of tea, Maria asks him what happened and why his nose is bleeding and why he went outside wearing only pajama pants and a hoodie, but he won’t say.

Pietro’s quiet. “Can I…” He trails off.

Maria watches him intently. He’s thinking something, something that he and only he wants to do, and she marvels. He’s come so far. “Do you want to finish that thought?”

He cuts his eyes at her, like he’s afraid she’s about to rip the rug out from under him. “There was a...um, a dog, he…” She tilts her head; he swallows and stops talking again. “He…”

“What about him?” she presses.

“I found him.” She makes a small sound meaning _yes, go on_ , and he continues. “He’s...outside. I didn’t…bring...him.” He stops again. Every word seems to take a whole world of strength.

“Would you like to?” she prompts.

He doesn’t say anything.

“If you want to, we can bring him inside.”

Still, nothing.

“Would you like to tell me what you’re thinking right now, Pietro?”

He blinks. “Sorry,” he says, and he fiddles with the strings of his sweatshirt.

They’re going in circles here. He seems to be settled on the dog, so she goes for that. She holds up both hands, one with one finger and one with two. He feels like he’s regressed back to when he was with Johann—she can tell from the way he ducks his head when he talks and stops eating whenever someone enters the room and can barely voice his own opinion. So she’ll give him a choice. “Do you want to go get the dog or do you want to leave him outside?” she asks, offering him both hands.

He stares at her for a few seconds, as though waiting for her to hurt him, and then nods at the first hand.

“Do you want to go get him or do you want me to go get him?”

Again, he nods at the first. “Can I...give him something to eat?”

Maria smiles. He’s doing it. “Of course.”

Pietro slides out of the chair, tentative, and moves to the door. He urges in a small, ragged dog coated in grime and blood clumped to his fur. She should be worried about rabies, but she’s not even thinking about it—she’s thinking about Pietro and that content look on his face as he coaxes the shivering dog inside her house. She doesn’t move towards him, not while he’s like this, but she watches.

“C’mere, good boy,” says Pietro, feeding him a couple of Lucky Charms, and the little dog’s tail swishes from side to side. “Here, here…” He scoops it up in his arms with a towel Maria gave him and, moving back over to the table where Maria sits, settles back in his chair with his knees drawn up, drying off the puppy in small, gentle strokes. He’s so...kind to it, like he knows just the kind of touch it needs. Touch that loves and soothes and heals… The kind of touch he craves.

“Where’d you find him?” she asks. There’s already a first aid kit on the table, one that Carol got after seeing the blood on Pietro’s front, and the boy opens it now and starts to clean the dog’s cut. 

“Outside Gamora’s,” he says, dabbing at the blood-matted fur.

“You’ve mentioned her before,” she starts. “Did she help you?”

He nods, reaching for another cleansing wipe and wiping at the dog’s head. The puppy whimpers a little, wriggling, but Pietro soothes it back to calm. “She made me a sandwich.”

That’s as close to a yes as she’s gonna get. “You visited her after you left home?”

He nods vaguely, but at least he’s responding now. The dog seems to have awoken something in him, something Maria hasn’t seen in him before, like he’s unthawing. “She’s always good to me,” he says. “Like Pepper.” He looks pained. “You won’t tell her, will you?”

“Tell her what?”

“What I did… I was just trying...to help…” The puppy licks at his face a few times, nosing at his chin. “I didn’t even—I didn’t…” He takes a deep breath, and he wraps the towel snug around the dog. 

“Take your time,” says Maria, because now that he’s communicating, she knows it’ll be okay.

He takes another breath and keeps talking.


End file.
